


These Indifferent Stars

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Found Family, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 56,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Washington, D.C. area, early 21st century. Arthur Pendragon, after the most confusing two weeks of his life, is taken to Camelot Redux - Lancelot's house with far too many reincarnated knights crammed into it. They're lost, desperate to find meaning, and unsure about their place in the world despite the power of prophecy and magic. Some are hopeful, some are cynical, some are ambivalent. Everyone is is a broke millennial and just wants to put more than 1.5% in their 401(K).Meanwhile, Galahad has his own small crew of exactly two (2) reincarnated queens and an unfortunate Knight-turned-werewolf, and they're on the hunt for Camelot. Galahad's time with the angels has left him with strange magic and baffling methods that, despite everything, work rather well.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian), Dinadan/Palamedes, Dinadan/Tristan (Arthurian), Igraine/Gorlois
Comments: 25
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur was not sulking.

He was doing many things as he sat in the most secluded corner of the laundromat, including – but not limited to – texting, frantically Googling to see if it was possible to be wrong about something your soul knew to be true, and ignoring the only other patron in the entire building.

The fact the place was so empty on a Saturday morning should have served as a warning. Everyone in the city had laundry to do, and most everyone rented tiny boxes stacked on other, equally small boxes that did not have room for things like washers and dryers and privacy. But no, past Arthur had even had the audacity to grin and think about how lucky he was to have the whole place to himself.

That feeling lasted until his father – not his father this life, his father from his first life – walked in with his own sack of dirty laundry.

This was fitting, a part of him supplied, that the man who condemned his only child to a life of manipulation by a wizard who cared more for proving his visions right than the wellbeing of, well, anyone would waltz into Arthur's life with his things he was trying to, er, he tried to fit _it all comes out in the wash_ and _airing his dirty laundry_ into a sentence that made sense and still circled back around to the fact Uther was **there** and didn't seem to so much as notice him.

He was letting the fact all of this was true and no matter what blogs that had been left to collect digital dust his search results gave to him, there was no way he could deny this without lying to himself, and he was pretty sure lying to himself was what got him in so much trouble the first time around.

But he was not _sulking._

He looked up to see Uther looking back at him, his own phone gripped so tightly his knuckles seemed to be turning white even in the hellish light that was the overhead conglomerate of fluorescent bulbs in dire need of replacement. Arthur felt himself pout before he forced his eyes back to his phone.

Okay, maybe he was sulking a little.

–

“Why do you think we were all born in America?” Mordred asked the general population of the room. He was lying on the floor, the plush carpet not much more comfortable than any other carpet he'd ever been on, tossing a well-abused orange that had been back and forth to work with him for at least a week but never eaten up in the air absently, eyes as unfixed as his mind.

“All of us? Are you sure?” Gawain asked.

“Palamedes was born in Oklahoma,” Gaheris snapped, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I think Dinadan was born in Australia,” Gawain chucked a pillow that didn't look like one of his at Gaheris, “What's wrong with _you?_ ”

“Wow,” Mordred paused his fruit abuse for a moment, “Can we make this about me?”

“He did ask his question first,” Agrivane rolled his neck as far back as he could to see some of the rest of the room without turning around from his computer, “And going into what's wrong with the both of you would take entirely too wrong.”

“I'm going to go ask,” Gawain decided.

He was out the door before anyone could suggest he wait for an hour that wasn't somewhere around three in the morning.

“That's going to go horribly,” Gareth had been successful in not getting involved in what he knew was going to be hilarious but also a shitshow, “I'm going to go record it.”

“About ME??” Mordred threw the orange at Gareth. The yelp told him he had missed terribly and hit Gaheris instead.

“I swear to fuck if Bedivere turns off the WiFi because you can't answer a question I am going to change the WiFi password tomorrow morning,” Agrivane warned them.

“It's not even his house,” Gaheris muttered.

“It's not our either,” Agrivane pointed out, “And none of the rest of you thought to agree to have the router in our room, or even text me asking why saying no might not have been a good idea.”

There was a humph from Mordred's general direction that told Agrivane it was still a sore spot.

Gawain came scampering back in with wild looking eyes and a smile that bordered on terrified.

“Damnit,” Gareth sat down without much grace, “That was fast.”

“WiFi,” Agrivane warned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dinadan's snapping question came from the doorway, “It's three-nineteen in the fucking morning.”

“I asked earlier,” Gaheris informed Dinadan, “But Mordred thinks his question is more important.”

“Why do you think we were all born in America?” Mordred asked again because he felt like everyone had forgotten already.

“Because in the nineties it was the most powerful country in the world,” Dinadan said like it was obvious, “And if Arthur really is going to bother showing up and doing whatever it is that batshit insane wizard who fancied himself a Druid told him to do, what better place than the country that has the world's economy by the balls?”

“You're giving the American economy too much credit,” Gareth argued.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Dinadan snapped, “Seriously. Please. No, I retract that please and am very upset with you all.”

“What did I do!?” Agrivane actually turned around to look at Dinadan.

“Seriously,” Dinadan crossed his arms, “You killed me.”

“Oh,” Agrivane turned back around, “right.”

Gareth made a small squeaking noise.

“Okay, no, you're right, Gareth,” Dinadan did not uncross his arms, “You're an angel and were clearly socialized outside of Orkney.”

The brothers waited until Dinadan had left and Mordred slowly held up ten fingers before any of them said anything.

“He has a point,” Agrivane said.

“I don't feel like we're meant to support Arthur in world-saving financial endeavors,” Gareth argued.

“I meant go the fuck to sleep,” Agrivane rolled his eyes, “I'm the only one in this room that doesn't have to be up in four hours or fewer.”

Gaheris rolled the orange back to Mordred, who threw it at Agrivane this time. 

Another yelp told him it was Gawain he'd hit this time.

The muffled scream from Agrivane told him the WiFi had just been cut off.

–

Lancelot had envisioned a very different life.

He remembered his eighteenth birthday clearly. The trust fund his extended family had known about his entire life was, finally, brought to his awareness. His mother had forseen her family acting badly in the event of her death, and had ensured nobody but her son could touch it.

All of the sudden, the entire world was open to him.

He slept in his car that night, determined never to talk to those who happened to be related to him again.

He'd dreamt of Camelot. 

He'd barely scrambled out of his car and onto the parking lot in time to vomit.

At the time, he thought he was losing his mind. After the dust settled, after the dreams became memories, he wondered if it was something about becoming an adult. Later – much later – he realized it was being free of the people who would have never allowed him to be _Lancelot_ that shattered whatever retaining wall the universe had been erected for him.

A few years after that, he would decide that rediscovering who he was and what he was meant to do was, despite everything, not a good enough use of the word 'erect.'

He'd bought this house – far away from anywhere he'd ever lived, on the outskirts of a major city – with cash. It wasn't much compared to some of the other houses in the same neighborhood, but it was _his._

He'd meant to redo it over time, replace the well-worn floors, strip the place of its layers of painted-over wallpaper, likely replace every last appliance or other piece of machinery the place had managed to accumulate over the years. After that, he would renovate the yard. He wanted a proper patio out front where he could grill and relax in a hammock and watch the world go by. He would build a garden in the back, grow and can his own foods, share with neighbors when he grew too much for himself.

He'd make a life here, he decided.

And then Gawain showed up.

Not at his house, thankfully. Lancelot might have faked his own death if _any_ other member of Camelot had shown up at his front door with no warning. No, this was at a small cafe somewhere between work and classes. Lancelot had a coffee in one hand, lid only partly secure, a pastry in the other, and when he tried to exit the shop at the same time Gawain tried to enter it, he'd found himself with only half of each item.

Lancelot was fairly sure he invented combinations of words that came somewhere near an apology and a swear strong enough to at least tempt the angels themselves to come down from their Heavens and smite him where he stood.

When he finally looked up to see how angry the other person was, it was _Gawain's_ eyes looking back, he dropped both items entirely.

He hadn't made it to class at all that day. 

What he had done was follow Gawain back to Gawain's car, where they both spent the rest of the afternoon and the better part of the evening crying more than talking.

_“I thought I was alone.”_

It only made sense that Gawain moved in with him instead of returning to student housing at the beginning of the next school year. If there were two of them, they figured, they had to be others. And, much like the first time, Camelot would pull all of her Knights into her orbit as if they were her satellites. 

Bedivere and Kay were next. At first, most of what Lancelot felt was jealousy. They were as they had always been – just a bit older, just a bit smarted, just a bit faster than everyone else around them. They had an entire language spoken just between them. It was a wordless one, its words comprised of looks and touches and slight shifts in their bodies. Still, Lancelot had invited them to move in with them, and they'd agreed. 

After a few months, the jealous shifted into something like pity. They never complained, at least not in front of him, but there was an exhaustion they shared. They tried to keep it hidden from the rest of the world, but Lancelot could see it in the way it pulled at the edges of their smiles and how they both pushed themselves to a point just shy of needed to bend time itself to get everything done.

Today, Lancelot could not have told you the order in which everyone else had shown up. All four of Gawain's brothers – Mordred, Agrivane, Gaheris, Gareth – as well as Palamedes and Dinadan and Tristan and Bors and Percival. Somewhere over the last sixteen years, his life went from wanting to build something honest for himself to accidentally rebuilding Camelot with far less room.

At the very least, he still had gotten his garden. Kay and Bedivere had built it.

Lancelot had also given everyone free reign in redoing their rooms. It would, he figured, save him both time and money. And if the Orkney brothers had redone the master bedroom with the thickest, darkest gray carpet he'd ever seen and deep red walls with, oddly, beige trim, then hey. At least he didn't give them free range of every room.

Dinadan, Tristan, and Palamedes shared the next-biggest room with a door. They were, as far as Lancelot could tell, almost never actually there. Despite this, they had done the floor with heater tiles and two bunk beds – one with a full bed on the bottom and the other with a desk. Lancelot had no idea where they kept their clothes, and at this point it seemed weird to ask.

Kay and Bedivere shared a room with more electronics that Lancelot understood. It was, Lancelot thought, meant to be the dining room but there had been a door between it and the kitchen when he'd bought the place. There were computers, sure, but also computers without screens and screens that seemed to go to nothing. He was fairly sure there was a couch in there somewhere, but he'd never seen a bed and did not want to know how they slept comfortably like that. It was unbearably hot, but he supposed at least Kay had spent a life with fire just under the lining of his skin. The computer-generated heat was probably cooler than that had been.

Percival and Bors shared the last bedroom, a small thing with just enough room for the both of them. Percival had declared it was larger than he'd had at the monastery and Bors, Lancelot knew, could and would sleep where ever he found himself when he got tired.

Lancelot had the basement to himself, It had been an addition to the house, as had two of the four bedrooms and two and a half of the three and a half bathrooms, so it had needed less work than the oldest part of the house. He assumed it had been built as a rental suite; it had its own kitchenette, own bathroom, even own heating and cooling system.

The kitchen was small – three people could fit if they were cleaver, but really it was built for one cook. The living room managed to fit an entertainment system with more gaming consoles that Lancelot knew had ever been made, along with two couches plus a recliner chair, which meant the rare times everyone was home and wanted to watch the same movie, everyone was sitting on everyone else.

The kitchen, living room, and bathrooms that weren't Lancelot's were always almost unsettlingly clean. He suspected this was because everyone, save perhaps Bedivere, feared coming home to find Kay cleaning a mess that wasn't his.

Lancelot told himself these things every night, often into the early morning hours. It was nice to remind himself they were all _there_ and _with him_.

A muffled “GODDAMNIT!” filtered through the ceiling, followed by stomping footsteps and a “YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”

Lancelot couldn't help but smile.

There was the Camelot he remembered.

–

Uther left a note for his son.

It wasn't anything fancy, or grand. It may just sit on the seat he left it on, ignored or not even noticed in the first place. It might be what he deserved, might be best to just let Arthur do whatever it was he needed to do without Uther in the way again.

He called Igraine.

“You never call,” she said when she picked up, “What's wrong?”

“I found him,” Uther told her before he changed his mind.

“I told you if you stopped looking, you would find him,” she did not sound proud or smug, “Is he with you.”

“I,” Uther hesitated.

“Uther,” Igraine warned, “I have forgiven you for many things but right now you have twenty seconds to let me talk to my son.”

Uther sprinted back to the laundromat.

“Your mother wants to talk to you,” he said it like it was one word as he shoved his phone at Arthur.

“Mom?” Arthur asked both Uther and the phone.

“Arthur!” Igraine exclaimed.

Uther realized neither of them had heard Arthur's voice before, nor had Arthur heard theirs.

He watched, anxious, as Arthur made small noises that were probably meant to be words and Igraine's mile-a-minute speech pattern barely reached him. When Arthur ended the call and handed the phone back to Uther, Uther did not expect Arthur to ask him where he lived.

“She's down in Virginia,” Uther assumed Arthur was asking after his mother, “I'm about twenty blocks away but every damned laundromat was either closed, crowded, or had an active arrest type situation going on.”

Arthur snorted. “Sounds like D.C. alright.”

“Lunch at Pret?” Uther asked.

“Won't be the weirdest thing I've done,” Arthur shrugged, all anxiety and fear and anger shutting themselves out at the mention of food.

Even if Uther was as terrible as the stories he'd heard, his mom was alive and he wasn't alone in the universe anymore.

And, really, he'd probably follow someone covered in blood that wasn't theirs for a good sandwich.


	2. Breakfast of Knights + One Champion

Kay's alarm was sounding, but the distinct lack of Kay on the bed told Bedivere Kay was already up and moving.

Bedivere rolled over, swiped the Kay's phone screen to the right until it stopped making noise, and rolled back over. He buried his face in the pillows and let out a long-suffering breath.

There had been more noise than they were able to sleep through in the early morning hours, and the way it divided his sleep into two distinct halves – normal sleep and post-Orkney-bullshit sleep – always made him cranky until around lunch.

At least he didn't have to deal with people all day.

He laid there, awake but trying to let his back muscles unclench until he heard the door open.

“Mm,” Bedivere purred as he rolled his head to look in Kay's general direction, “Good shower?”

“Always,” Kay chuckled, “Water's still warm.”

“It better be,” Bedivere rolled his eyes, “Everyone else is still asleep.”

“I think I heard Bors moving around,” Kay said as he hung his towel on the back of their door, “but yeah.”

Bedivere got up slowly, exhaustion still clinging to him. He let himself sit up for a few moments, feet on the floor and head hanging forward, eyes closed.

“Breakfast will be ready when you get out the shower,” Kay kissed Bedivere's forehead. There was an unspoken, _If you take too long, your food's going to go cold._

Bedivere was on his feet and headed down the hallway.

–

Arthur was nervous.

Uther – he couldn't quite think of the man as his father – had left him Igraine's phone number on the back of their lunch receipt.

Somehow, they'd avoided talking about themselves the entire meal. Arthur knew no more about Uther than Uther knew about Arthur. That Arthur now had the choice to contact his mother on his own...he couldn't tell if it was incidental or Uther's way of trying to atone for his first life.

He'd spent the rest of his Saturday pacing his apartment, freshly laundered clothes half-folded in the sack he used to transfer them.

He couldn't count the times he'd unlocked his phone and tapped a few of the numbers only to lock his phone again.

He wound up texting her, hands shaking heart racing.

–

“Do you think Kay cooks everything every morning, or do they have some sort of deep freezer in there and he just sticks it all in the oven to warm it up?” Gaheris asked as he snagged one of the remaining breakfast sandwiches from the barely-warm tray on the stove top.

“I think you're ungrateful,” Dinadan said through a mouthful of apple, “Have you ever thanked him for breakfast?”

“I don't think I've seen him more than three minutes at a time since I first moved in here,” Gaheris shrugged, “Doesn't mean I'm not thankful.”

“How does he even have the time?” Gareth asked as he snagged a breakfast sandwich for himself, “How do any of us have time for anything?”

“The forty hour work week is designed to make living impossible,” Percival said through a yawn, “We work, we sleep, we cram errands in on our days off, we sleep some more.”

“Can we not?” Tristan asked as he slipped in the impossibly small kitchen to grab his lunch out of the fridge, “Last thing I need on a Tuesday morning is to spend my commute angry about how I'm never going to be able to live a life I'm proud of _and_ pay all the bills.”

“What bills?” Gaheris asked.

“Just because you haven't offered to pay mortgage and electric shares doesn't mean the rest of us don't have bills,” Dinadan pointed out, “Come on, Tristan, we're going to be late.”

“Acutely aware,” Tristan said through gritted teeth as he tried to get out of the kitchen as smoothly as he'd managed to get into the kitchen.

Gaheris waited until he was sure they were both in Tristan's car before he asked, “What's with them?”

“Well, we certainly didn't have their favor the first time,” Gareth frowned, “Well, you four didn't, and I'm guilty by blood, so.”

Gaheris made a sound that was probably meant to be an angry one and stormed out the front door, barely remembering to grab his backpack off arm of the couch.

The door slammed behind him.

Gareth sighed, a heavy thing that seemed to create a weight in his diaphragm, and grabbed his own lunch from the fridge.

–

**From:Gawain 8:45AM  
Smelled like the youngest two had a fight in the kitchen**

Agrivane had no idea how Gawain could smell when a fight had happened – nonetheless who had been involved – and he never wanted to ask.

Regardless of how he did it, he was usually right about the details.

Agrivane sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Gawain?” Mordred asked as he pulled a work shirt out of the closet.

“Yes and no,” Agrivane told the oldest of his younger brothers, “He's not even left for work yet. Why can't he come back here and say something like a normal person?”

“When in the history of the Orkney islands have any of us done something like a normal person?” Mordred pointed out.

Agrivane mumbled something that seemed like begrudging agreement.

“How's this look for an interview?” Mordred asked.

Agrivane turned around to look and then realized he had no idea what one even wears to interviews.

“Uh,” Agrivane tried to be useful, “looks like business clothes?”

“Somehow not entirely unhelpful,” Mordred shook his head, “Suit jacket or nah?”

“What's this position again?” Agrivane realized he'd forgotten.

“Just custodial work,” Mordred grimaced, “So probably not.”

“Oi,” Agrivane threw a pillow at Mordred and missed entirely, “World would fall apart without janitors. Go with the suit jacket.”

“Thanks,” Mordred managed a small smile, “What's your plan for the day?”

“Whole lot of nothing,” Agrivane turned back around to face his computer, “Well, apparently cleaning the kitchen, but whatever.”

“Do I get three guesses whose fault it is?” Mordred asked as he shrugged on his jacket.

“No,” Agrivane's eye-roll could be heard in his words, “Now get.”

Mordred threw his hands up in surrender and made his way out the bedroom.

–

“Lunch?” Bors asked.

“Check,” Percival held up a brown paper bag.

“Phone?” Bors asked.

“In my coat pocket,” Percival groaned, “I've got everything, I promise.”

“Keys?” Bors raised an eyebrow.

“Hanging around my neck,” Percival sounded as unamused as he felt.

“Car keys?” Bors clarified.

“I – ah shit,” Percival dropped his lunch on the counter and ran back to his room, colliding into Mordred on the way, “Sorry!”

Mordred looked at Bors for any clues, but Bors just looked amused.

“You look like you can't decide if you're interviewing for an executive role or you want to vomit and hide in the bushes the rest of the day,” Bors informed Mordred.

“The second one,” Mordred muttered.

“You'll be fine,” Bors tried to assure him but came across as dismissive, “besides, Percival assures me they're good people.”

“That's just it,” Mordred pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve absently, “What if the only reason I'm getting this interview is because their favorite vet tech recommended me? What if I'm not qualified?”

“Can you scrub shit off the floor?” Percival asked as he entered the living room.

“Well, yes?” Mordred turned to face Percival.

“Afraid of dogs that look like they might bite?” Percival asked.

“Not to my knowledge?” Mordred just sounded confused.

“Can you avoid smiling at someone who's grieving?” Percival asked as he grabbed his jacket off the coat rack.

“Why would anyone do that?” Mordred blanched.

“You'd be amazed how many people's sympathy responses misfire horribly in the heat of the moment,” Percival informed him, “Ready?”

“As ready as I can be,” Mordred was looking at the floor.

“Let's go,” Percival nodded and lead the way to Bors' car.

Bors watched them go, amused.

–

“What's on your schedule today?” Bedivere asked when he realized they were only two stops away from where Kay would be handling an event for the next few days.

“Some guy who does cross-country antique shows,” Kay shook his head, “It amazed me someone can sell so much old stuff that they can afford an exhibition room so close to the richest parts of the city.”

“Sentiment,” Bedivere grinned, “and scarcity.” Kay groaned and Bedivere laughed.

“You'll text me if you find anything, yeah?” Kay asked the same question every morning.

“Always,” Bedivere promised him.

They did this – Kay worked while Bedivere poured through everything he could get his hands on at the Library of Congress as if it might afford him some clues on where and when Arthur would be reborn, might tell him how to find their King and Kay's brother, bloodlines be damned.

_After all,_ Kay had reassured Bedivere on many occasions, _you were his War Marshall because you were the one who could turn even the tiniest scrap of information into a strategy._

And now, with rent and bills split – well, Bedivere actually had no idea how many ways things were split, but he knew Kay wasn't the only one shoving money at Lancelot every month – the guilt that threatened to drown Bedivere's efforts to find Arthur was less likely to drown him and more likely to just leave him treading water until he was either too exhausted or succeeded.

“My stop,” Kay kissed Bedivere's forehead, “Have fun.”

“Try not to yell at your clients,” Bedivere grabbed Kay's hand and kidded the back of it. Kay smiled but didn't make any promises.

Kay threaded through too many people for any one place, eager to get where there would be even more people but the sky would be visible, at least.

Kay stopped for coffee – it wasn't _his_ coffee, but he knew he liked what this place made even if he couldn't pronounce the name of the chain-much-smaller-than-the-one-named-after-a-whale-hunter.

Whale hunter? The whale being hunted? Was the whale not the hunter in the narrator's mind, anyways? He hadn't read _Moby Dick_ in over a decade and wouldn't subject himself to that again just to figure out which one it was.

He knew he was the only senior partner working this event, which meant he'd have a handful of people either newly hired or hired specifically for this event. Either way, he wasn't thrilled, and he'd need a lot more coffee to keep going until the end of the day.

While the antique dealer's list of needs and requests weren't particularly long or outlandish, these were _antiques_ the new kids were being trusted with. He'd been told the client had requested him specifically, but he didn't know if that was true or if his boss was just trying to make him feel good about effectively working the event alone.

His plan was to get there early, get the space opened and make sure the hotel had moved all the furniture required into the room so all his team had to do was rearrange everything. He'd arranged a thirty-minute sit-down with the client, whose name he hadn't bothered remembering because he knew he'd hear it thirty times before the event actually started.

He paused, looked around, and realized he was already in the middle of the hotel lobby.

This was going to be a long day.

He heard someone call his name – not his legal name – and whipped around despite himself.

A man shorter than him but built like he regularly picked up other grown men and hurled them across the room for fun was crossing the lobby, headed directly at him. His well-tailored suit made him look like he belonged here despite his stature. There was this look on his face like he _knew_ Kay, like he was looking for Kay and was finally closing in on him.

Fighting his instinct to run, Kay locked eyes with this stranger and searched his memories of his first life – this man had to be his first life, he was so careful not to let anyone say his Name outside the house – to see if he could recognize him on sight or if he was going to need another hint.

“Lamorak?” Kay realized.

Judging by the other man's smile, he was correct.

Kay thought about the Orkney brothers, who would invariably all be home before him, and realized he was going to need something stronger than coffee to get through this.


	3. Everything's Legal in Florida

D.C. city blocks, on the whole, were shorter than New York City blocks. That's not to say there weren't impossibly long blocks on the outskirts of the city, where urban shifted to suburban or even to historic sites, but that wasn't _really_ the city. The city was the heart of a place's border lines, the heartbeat of the bodyless being that every city became if it survived long enough.

This was a boon, for the most part, because when Bedivere realized he had the choice between taking the train to the hotel Kay was working at and traveling twenty blocks on foot, his feet would be the faster option. Especially if he ran.

He counted his steps as he ran, allowing his mind only to stray to read the street signs. One, two, three, four, five, all the way up to fifteen before he started again...one, two, three. If he stopped counting, if he let anything beyond the street signs filter into his head, the fact Kay had sent him the hotel address and nothing else would flood him. Not just his head, but his heart, his nerves, his stomach.

Kay was in trouble, or he'd found someone. 

Knowing Kay, it could have been either.

No. He couldn't think about that.

One, two, three, four...

–

“Gorlois!” Igraine called back into their home, “Gorlois, are things coming along back there?”

“Are things coming along?” he called back, “It's meat, cooking! If it wasn't coming along you'd've heard the smoke alarm!”

Igraine made a frustrated noise and shoved the broom back in the hall closet before she made her way back to the kitchen.

“Igraine,” Gorlois sighed, “come here.”

She let her shoulders drop and made Gorlois come to her. He half-rolled his eyes before he put his spatula down and hugged her.

“You're nervous,” he said.

“You think?” she scoffed.

“On rare occasions,” he shrugged, “It's going to be fine.”

“I wish I shared your confidence,” she let herself relax a little bit.

“Igraine,” Gorlois kissed her temple, “he's your son.”

There was a lot that went unsaid – _He should have been your son, too_ and _What if he resents me?_ and countless other things that knew no words – in the silence that followed.

“How long do we have?” Igraine asked.

“Just under an hour,” Gorlois craned to read the clock on the stove, “Why?”

Igraine let her head rest against Gorlois' shoulder and wondered if he knew why that was such a daft question.

–

“Do you think there's anything more to this life than work?” Tristan asked.

“Food,” Dinadan answered as if it was obvious, “Food's definitely a pretty big motivator for me.”

Tristan laughed despite himself.

“I'm glad we work together,” Tristan told him, “You make the endless cycle of paperwork and playing messenger boy for people who don't know how much work it takes to keep their private empires from crumbling under their feet tolerable.”

It was Dinadan's turn to laugh. “Glad I'm tolerable.”

“What? No!” Tristan tried to correct Dinadan and defend himself, “You are a delight!”

Dinadan chucked a pen at him and laughed again. It hit Tristan on the forehead and bounced off in the general direction of 'away from them and their jackassery.'

“Speaking of food,” Tristan looked at the clock, “Want to grab dinner before we head home?”

“If I ever say no to food, assume I'm so far into the active stages of dying that you just need to lay me in a burial shroud and ready the boats,” was Dinadan's way of saying yes.

“Still pretty sure just dumping a dead body into the swamps of Florida is illegal,” Tristan said as he shut his laptop.

“It's Florida!” Dinadan actually shut his machine off before closing it, “Everything's legal in Florida!”

“Still not sure who told you that,” Tristan muttered.

“It's in the brochures at the airports,” Dinadan informed him.

Tristan never should have told him he was afraid of flying.

“Where we eating?” Dinadan asked as he pulled his jacket on.

“Pick a place,” Tristan told him, “I'll follow.”

“Tapas,” Dinadan didn't need to think about it, “We'll have to get on the train, but tapas.”

“We have to get on the train to get to my car anyways,” Tristan pointed out.

“Tapas are the other direction,” Dinadan raised an eyebrow.

“Eh,” Tristan shrugged, “I can't follow if you don't start walk – HEY!” he cried as Dinadan took off running towards the stairwell.

–

Lamorak spent the entire first day of the show feeling like someone had tied a rope around his spine and kept tugging at it periodically.

It was, he decided around lunch time, likely Kay's stare having a physical manifestation. The castle's keeper had been intense the first time around, but the constant smile that did not quite reach his eyes added something to his intensity Lamorak did _not_ like.

He'd spent **years** trying to track down someone from Camelot, anyone who might be able to help him make sense of himself any why he was back _now_ of all times and point him in a direction that felt meaningful.

When he'd found Key Events in the most politically powerful city in the country – if not the world at this point – and had seen the picture of one of the mid-level event managers and felt the core of his soul shift with haunting recognition, he knew he had to hold a show in D.C., had to book through Key Events, and absolutely had to know if his soul was right or if he was losing his mind.

He'd been right – not only had the man he'd recognized through a tiny digital photograph _been_ Kay, Kay recognized him.

But after that, Kay had been all business. Even though it had been just the two of them at first, it had been _Has the hotel tried to upsell you on anything?_ and _Is there anything missing?_ When the underlings had shown up, any hope of getting Kay to talk about Camelot was gone.

Lamorak had spent the entire day bartering with people whose wallets were worth more than his life over money they wouldn't even notice was gone from their bank accounts. He glance towards Kay a few times, who was either standing as far out of the way as possible or directing people who couldn't have been more than a decade younger than he was.

Kay was never looking at him.

It was just the two of them again, clients gone and the first day of the event over, and Kay was still _silent._

Lamorak racked his brain, desperate to remember is he'd somehow caused Kay such great offense that it would carry over to this life.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a commotion in the lobby.

“Sir, you can't just -” a frazzled voice came from the doorway as a blur of a man entered.

“He's with us,” Kay said without looking up, “Sorry about any confusion.”

Lamorak felt as confused as the woman who'd chased the newcomer looked, but she left and Lamorak looked at the new guy and realized he knew him, too.

“Ah,” Bedivere said as he looked at Lamorak, “I can see why you classified this as an emergency.”

The War Marshall sounded – and looked – winded.

“Did you run here?” Kay asked as he took Bedivere's backpack, “Why?”

“Run or train,” Bedivere shrugged, his words clipped as he drew deep breaths, “So I ran.”

“Sorry,” Kay put the backpack over his own shoulders, “But uh, yeah. We got one more.”

“One more,” Lamorak realized he was speaking the words as each one escaped, “How many?”

“Uh,” Bedivere blinked a few times, “Five, three, that's eight, two more for ten, us, then Lancelot,” he muttered under his breath, “You make fourteen?”

“So why am I an emergency?” Lamorak couldn't help but feel a little angry and just plain _left out_.

Kay and Bedivere both gave him such sad looks that they did not need to tell him why Bedivere's head count had started with five.

“Ah,” he realized, “All of them?”

“If there are more than five, I quit,” Kay spat.

_Ah,_ Lamorak couldn't help but smile a little, _there's the Kay I remember._

“So uh,” Lamorak looked between them, “Where is everybody?”

“Probably home,” Kay said like it was obvious.

“And home is..?” Lamorak realized he was probably being rude, but he didn't really care. He was _so close_ to more of Camelot and he was being gray rocked.

“Maybe an hour away?” Kay shrugged, “If you don't run into traffic.”

Lamorak almost asked how far away **everyone else's homes were** when he realized...

“...you all live together?”

“Yeah,” Bedivere's smile looked more like a grimace, “It's a little cramped, but it works.”

“Why?” Lamorak couldn't have stopped the question if he'd tried.

“I have no idea,” Kay informed him.

Sometimes, Lamorak reminded himself, you get exactly what you were looking for, no less but also no more.

He'd found the twenty-first century's version of Camelot, he was sure of it.


	4. Come What May

“Scrubs are way, way more comfortable than I expected,” Mordred said to no one in particular, “Why did I not know this sooner?”

“Are you wearing your work clothes and eating?” Agrivane asked.

“Nope,” Mordred said right before he shoved half a meatball into his mouth, “These are home scrubs.”

“Oh my God,” Percival said from the kitchen doorway, “I've created a monster.”

“Who made dinner?” Lancelot asked, “It smells delicious and I didn't hear the fire alarm.”

“Very funny,” Gawain rolled his eyes, “Have a little faith, eh?”

“Kay has been gone for three days,” Gaheris pointed out, “Who'd've thought an antique event just a few stops away would have him so busy he stays there?”

“I cooked,” Gareth actually answered Lancelot's question, “Vegetarian on the left, meat on the right.”

“Any why would someone have an antique event Thursday through Saturday?” Dinadan asked, “Friday through Sunday makes more sense.”

“If they were looking for everyone to show up, sure,” Gareth argued, “If they're looking for more specific buyers, Thursday would attract people who can _afford to_ go on Thursdays.”

“I hate how much sense that makes,” Lancelot shook his head, “Anyone pick out a movie yet?”

“We've got it narrowed down to three,” Palamedes informed him, “and were going to toss for it.”

“Kay has the three-sided die,” Tristan added, “so we've just assigned each one two numbers on your Monopoly standard dice.”

“Monopoly standard,” Mordred repeated.

“Wait, did you take it out of the Monopoly game?” Lancelot realized.

“I'll put it back!” Tristan looked scandalized.

“Kay and Bedivere won't be back until late tonight,” Bors read off his phone, “They say to start the movie without them.”

“What the fuck type of antique event are they covering?” Gawain's upper lip curled in disgust, “That's too much Saturday.”

Agrivane threw his balled-up napkin at Gawain.

“Not over the carpet!” Lancelot reminded them.

“Take all food related fights outside,” Gareth added, “And remember: food thrown at others means you've forfeited seconds.”

Gawain and Agrivane grumbled but settled back down into their seats. Lancelot looked at Gareth, impressed.

The clack of the die on the coffee table brought the activity in the living room and kitchen to a stop so sudden it was as if the silence had been dropped on them.

“Spaceballs?” Gareth asked when neither Tristan or Mordred, their faces inched from the die on opposing sides, said anything for a few beats.

“We have that movie?” Lancelot asked as he sat down on the floor.

“Spaceballs made the final three?” Palamdes asked.

Chaos erupted and Bors wondered if Kay and Bedivere would make it in time for the movie to start anyway.

–

Arthur had known Uther and Igraine – his parents – did not live together this life, had never lived together this life. Uther had this dark cloud of guilt that seemed to be a part of him more than it followed him, and Arthur felt few things for him. He was his father, sure, but that was another life entirely.

His mother, though, he knew had been a victim of Merlin's manipulations as much as anyone else, and she hadn't lived long enough for anyone Arthur kept close – nonetheless trusted – during his adult life to know any stories of her.

It was a shock to see Gorlois – this man who seemed more of a phantom's story than his own father – standing just a few feet down the hall from Igraine she she answered the door. He was nothing like Uther. The air around him was clear, there was no exhaustion clouding his eyes. He even _smiled_ at Arthur – a genuine smile for doing something as simple as _showing up on time._

Dinner had been an easy thing, conversation had been _fun_ and now, just two nights later, he was back at their townhouse for dinner and it felt like he thought home might.

“Where did you get that painting?” Arthur asked between bites of steak, “The flowers on the wall.”

“She made it,” Gorlois gestured to Igraine.

“Whoa,” Arthur was impressed, “You paint?”

“A bit,” Igraine grinned, “I like to keep busy, but I try to keep it productive.

“Ah,” Arthur thought of all the late nights at the office he'd volunteered for to avoid going home and doing nothing until he fell asleep, “Maybe I should take up a hobby.”

“Everyone should have a hobby,” Igraine agreed.

“Not sure what I'd be good at,” Arthur looked back at the painting.

“You will suck,” Gorlois told him, “but everyone sucks in the beginning of a thing.”

“Somehow that sounds like words of encouragement that shouldn't extend to all things,” Arthur thought back to Uther's parental instincts, “How did you pick painting?”

“I tried a lot of things at first,” Igraine told him, “but something about painting really stuck.”

What Arthur heard was _get a bunch of beginner kits and see if any of them spark joy and then run with it before something comes along and steals all of your joy away again._

_Maybe I should make a therapist appointment while I'm picking up those kits,_ he made a mental note. But what would he tell a therapist? 'Yes, hello, I was King Arthur but now I'm very much alone and miss my Knights and my wife and have no idea how to find them – if they're even out there at all – so instead I work sixty hours a week to try to fill the hole?'

Maybe he should just stick to crafts.

–

“And you're sure about this?” Bedivere asked as he packed the last of Lamorak's antiques into the RV the other once-Knight called home.

“As sure as I am about everything I've ever done,” Lamorak tried to sound sure of himself, “which is to say, not terribly sure, no.” He failed at the sure-sounding bit entirely.

“It'll be fine,” Kay said as he appeared behind them, “Well, it could be worse, at least.”

Kay had been as Lamorak had remembered him – sure of himself, doing the work of ten people, and the type of man trouble took one look at and fucked back off into oblivion to wait for its next victim – for the second and third days of the event. Something about telling Lamorak all five Orkney brothers were few enough miles between them and him had put Kay at ease again, and Lamorak made the conscious decision not to ask about it.

“And there will be room to park the RV?” Lamorak asked for what he was sure was the sixth time in fifteen minutes.

“I've asked Bors to make sure the driveway is clear,” Kay assured him, “He knows better than to ask why.”

Bors – from what little Lamorak could remember of him – had been a genuinely good man who just so happened to wear the mantle of Knight of Camelot. If Kay trusted Bors, Lamorak trusted Bors.

“So, we'll all three crawl into your RV, you'll drop Kay off to get his bike, then I'll direct you to the house,” Bedivere went over the plan, “from there, we hope everything goes...well.”

“Can you give me a hand with the ties?” Lamorak asked.

“A hand, sure,” Bedivere offered.

“Oh, oh shit, Bedivere I am so -” Lamorak's face went pale.

“Mate,” Bedivere looked like he could barely stop himself from laughing, “I have two this life.”

That Lamorak had been around Bedivere for the past two and a half days and might have noticed went unsaid.

Somewhere deeper in the RV, Kay cackled.

–

Kay entered the house alone, confident Bedivere and Lamorak wouldn't be long. He'd just seen how Lamorak drove and Bedivere was, well, hardy enough to survive should the RV flip, he was fairly confident.

“Finally,” Gawain said without looking up, “The hell type of antique show did you have to handle?”

Only Bors and Percival looked up, and only Percival asked, “Where's Bedivere?”

Tristan paused the movie and everyone turned to stare at Kay. Before anyone else could formulate words, the sound of stones crunching under the RV's wheels filled the living room through the still-open door. Kay held up a hand, signaling for everyone to stay seated.

“You bought a car?” Dinadan asked. Kay made a sound that might have been a laugh under any other circumstances.

“Nope,” Kay looked around the room and wondered if anyone could see the traces of fear that there would be a murder in the living room with _Spaceballs_ paused in the background.

Bedivere put a hand on Kay's shoulder to tell him to move out of the way. Kay stepped inside, then Bedivere, and finally Lamorak, who looked as nervous as Kay felt.

There was a moment of near-oppressive silence before chaos erupted.


	5. Reintroductions

Arthur let Gorlois drive him to the Metro station this time, any worries about if the other man held any antagonism towards him soothed away by how genuinely kind he'd shown himself to be.

Gorlois did not ask after Camelot, did not want Arthur to tell him of his past life or what he might be doing back, did not want to know if Arthur thought there was something bigger at play.

Instead, he asked about Arthur's work.

“Igraine finds work horribly boring,” Gorlois explained, “When we met we both had Top Secret clearances anyways, so we couldn't have talked about work if we'd _wanted to._ ”

“Sounds like most of the city,” Arthur shook his head, “It's amazing that the government doesn't collapse under itself with the sheer volume of people entrusted to its secrets.”

Gorlois made a sound that could have been a chuckle.

They made polite small talk and Arthur realized this had to be what his friends were talking about when they spoke of the _familiar awkwardness_ that was meeting their parents' significant others for the first time, just...a bit different, too.

By the time Arthur was on the train, he realized he was smiling without having to force it.

–

Lamorak had barely had time to react before someone lunged at him. He put one arm up to block his check while he readied the other to pull at the flying Orkney Brother he hadn't had the chance to recognize should he make contact. He closed his eyes and waited for impact.

They'd done this their first life and while he knew there was a chance it would happen again, he'd been counting on the whole _safety in numbers_ thing.

“No!” someone yelled, “You will NOT!”

There was a thud and a lot more yelling and Lamorak opened his eyes, sensing that he wasn't entirely safe, but whatever not-safe-behavior was going on, it was no longer directed **at** him.

He took a few deep breaths to try to keep the rising panic at bay. He forced himself to remember, to feel, and realized Gaheris was behind held down by Dinadan and a young man he didn't recognize.

“No!” it had been Dinadan who'd yelled, “No, bad Orkney!”

Gaheris snarled and tried to shake his handlers.

“Why are you on _his_ side?” Gaheris snapped at the man Lamorak didn't recognize, “Him! Of all people!”

The young man said nothing, only focused on holding Gaheris down.

“I'm going to bet he knows you,” Dinadan was looking at Lamorak, “and knows there was more to the story than you wanted anyone know.”

Lamorak glanced around the room and realized the three guilty-looking ones were Gawain, Agrivane, and Mordred. They were looking at Gaheris, so Lamorak assumed he was safe from any ire they held for now.

Bors, Lamorak recognized the man the instant he saw him, was simply sitting down, unimpressed and looking away from the scene. Lancelot was seated on the floor, just barely having been missed by the take-down, holding a glass of what looked like wine above the fray. Tristan and Palamedes, Lamorak realized, looked ready to kill Gaheris in that moment.

He wondered what they knew of the whole incident that found Morgause dead and Lamorak fleeing into the woods, hunted by the four brothers who'd made the trip to Orkney. They'd killed him in cold blood to prevent the truth from making it back to Camelot. Blood, they told him as he bled out, would always win out over truth.

Dinadan was one of the Knights who had ridden back with the brothers, Lamorak knew, but judging by the ferocity the Knight who'd been more fit for poetry than battle, Dinadan knew the truth and had paid the same price as Lamorak.

“Food's on the stove if you're hungry,” Bors broke the silence, “might still be warm. Microwave works if it isn't.”

“NO!” Kay and the young man Lamorak didn't recognize barked at Bors.

 _That must be Gareth,_ Lamorak realized. The fifth Orkney brother was still Lancelot's squire when the ill-fated trip to Orkney had happened and as such hadn't gone with everyone else. Lamorak had assumed he'd turned out like the rest of his brothers, but it seemed the time spent with Lancelot had its effect.

If he'd've been like Kay from his time in the kitchens, Lamorak had reasoned, he'd be yelling instead of silent and there wouldn't be genuine rage just below the surface. When Kay felt rage, there was generally fire.

Bors chuckled and shook his head, and something about it broke the worst of the tension. A young man – previously hidden behind Bors entirely – looked over towards Lamorak, eyes full of questions. He realized that had to be Percival, the last one on the list Kay had rattled off for him a few times.

He hadn't lived long enough to meet Percival his first life, and while he'd read every scrap of _Arthurian_ media he could get his hands on, he knew they were mostly just stories, bits of truth filtered through countless mouths, each shaped by the social climate and rules of its teller.

“Bar's in the second cabinet on your left,” Lancelot offered, “mixers are in the fridge.”

A drink sounded like a good idea.

–

Arthur flopped on his couch, face down, shoes half-off. He let gravity do the rest and they fell to the floor, their landing muffled by the area rug he'd gotten specifically to muffle the sound of his shoes falling off his feet.

He was still smiling. His face hurt, but he'd take the hurt over not smiling.

He couldn't remember a time he'd felt so _happy_ before.

Well, there had been once, his first life, when he was still a boy and played more than he trained. Sir Ector, the man who'd raised him alongside his own son, Kay, and Bedivere, whose own story of how he came to spend his time at Sir Ector's estate Arthur never got from either of the older boys. They'd spent the day exploring and came back so late they were sure they were going to get in trouble.

But Sir Ector hadn't yelled, hadn't raised his hand, hadn't cursed them for being late. He'd asked if they were all alright and, upon being assured they'd just lost track of where the sun was in the sky, told them he was glad they were home.

Something about it had made the long day of fun even more special. He could see echoes of Sir Ector's kindness in Igraine and Gorlois and wondered if they'd know Sir Ector and Uther had been the exception in their circles as far as temperament.

He'd never know, he realized, unless Sir Ector was a part of Avalon's plan for Camelot and Arthur and those who had the misfortune of becoming snared in the nets fate had cast over him.

Just last week, he thought he was alone. Now, he'd met his father and had dinner with his mother _twice_. 

He was sure there had to be more out there, somewhere.

He hoped they weren't terribly far away.

–

Lamorak wound up squeezing between Lancelot and Tristan on the floor, Bors, Percival, and Gawain on the couch above them, Palamedes next to Tristan and Dinadan either squeezed between them or sitting on them – Lamorak couldn't tell and didn't want to stare.

The loveseat had been vacated to let Kay and Bedivere sit there. Mordred and Agrivane seemed to shift so frequently that they were never in the same place when Lamorak took an anxious glance around the room.

Gaheris had been relocated to the far end of the coffee table. Gareth was not too far from Gaheris, drink in one hand and spray bottle in the other. Any time Gaheris started to stare in Lamorak's direction, Gareth sprayed him in the face.

Despite everything, Lamorak hoped it was just water.

Somewhere in the coat rack, a phone rang. Tristan paused the movie.

“Goddamnit,” Mordred muttered.

“Your phone's in your hand,” Agrivane pointed out.

“Oh, right,” Mordred stared at his phone, “I retract my deity damning over this specifically. Whose phone?”

“Ah crap,” Gareth looked between Gaheris and the coat rack, “I think it's mine. I'm not here.”

“Who'd be calling you this late?” Lancelot got up and rooted around the jackets until he pulled out the offending phone, “Tristan, its yours.”

“Just reject it,” Tristan made no effort to get up.

“It says scam likely,” Lancelot said, his finger maybe an inch above the screen.

“No let me have fun with them,” Kay held out a hand.

Lancelot silenced Tristan's phone and put it back in Tristan's coat pocket.

Tristan hit the play button and everyone resumed watching the movie.

Lamorak felt like he'd always been there, perhaps not physically – definitely not physically – but in his soul. These people were Knights around the table of the King destined for more than one lifetime could hold once. Now, they were something different: without their king, but still rallied around their King's Champion, who seemed to be unaware he was holding the new Camelot together on his own.

On screen, an impossibly large jar of jam was flying through space.

Lamorak did his best to relax and let himself _be_ before he tried to figure if he could be a part of this new thing the universe had spun together.


	6. Chapter 6

The second most reckless thing he'd ever Melion had ever done ended with him getting turned into a werewolf. He thought he'd been noble, brave, pure of heart, but he'd failed. He was none of those things, and his hubris was his downfall. Or perhaps he'd been all those things but he'd become a monster anyways.

This life was a little easier; though the change had come as surprise – he hadn't even considered that the little rat of a dog that bit him at the dog park _could_ have been a werewolf – he could lock himself in his apartment where he couldn't hurt anyone.

The most reckless thing he'd ever done was let the Grail Knight convince him to join him on his quest to find their King.

He was reminded of this as a steak came sliding across the table as if it was a shuffle board puck and he was the highest score zone.

“I physically cannot eat another steak,” he informed Galahad.

“You ate the others just fine,” the Grail Knight crossed his arms, “I'll just cook the rest. You'll be hungry later.”

“The rest,” Melion mouthed as Galahad walked back towards the tiny kitchen the hotel room came wth.

Melion realized he had no idea where the steaks came from, or how Galahad had managed to obtain them without being noticed.

He felt Guinevere and Morgause – two queens who seemed content to let the too-young Galahad be in charge.

“How ya feeling?” Guinevere poked her head in the room.

“Like my insides are being replaced by steak,” Melion grumbled, “Excellent steak, but still steak.”

“Sounds not terrible,” Morgause said from somewhere Melion couldn't see, “all things considered.”

Melion had run into the trio almost literally. They were crossing the gas station's tiny parking lot after only half-looking to see if any cars were coming, and Melion's truck was running on fumes, so he had been trying not to hit the gas _or_ breaks until he was at a gas pump.

Guinevere had been the one to yell at him, tell him how reckless he was and how lucky he should feel that he wouldn't have to live with striking three people. Melion had agreed with her points, so he just stayed quiet and let her yell.

“Wait,” a young man who could have been her son stopped her, “he's one of ours.”

Melion wondered if they were hunters and the near-boy could smell the monster's magic on him. 

He was going to die in a gas station parking lot.

“You're sure?” the second woman asked.

“Who were you,” the young man asked, “What is your name, good Knight?”

_Oh,_ Melion realized, _They're from Camelot._

That had been maybe two weeks prior. He'd been too excited to find out he was not alone to think about the consequences of _traveling with other people indefinitely_.

Now that it was the new moon – he laughed at how wrong the moon phase the general public had latched onto was – he was going to kill his traveling companions and the only people he could be his honest self around. He'd become trapped behind a mental wall, the hunger and confusion of the lone wolf in a world now meant for animals driving a hunger that felt close to rage.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and did his best to eat the steak that still lay on the table.

–

Morgause understood risk: She'd lived with more direct threats, died at the mercy of more treacherous magic.

They weren't dealing with the Merlin's magic here, just some rogue magic that seemed to be transmitted like rabies.

It used to be transmitted by direct magic. The target had to be specially selected and the caster had to be adept at what they were doing. Somewhere in the centuries she'd missed, the same effect had had its cause mutated into something not only uncontrollable, but that had what would be called _asymptomatic carriers_ were this a contagion that could be studied in a lab.

Still, she had the rope ready in case the wolf-form of the Knight she'd never heard of was not placated by a bunch of steaks.

The back-up plan was to have Guinevere distract the animal while she and Galahad bound its feet. Cruel, almost, but Melion had been the one to suggest they tie him up.

The Knight in question was lying curled up on the floor of their hotel room, naked and waiting. His breath was coming in short, panicked measures. There were tears streaking down his cheeks. He clearly knew what was coming, and Morgause shoved the fear trying to rise through her spine back down. She couldn't be afraid, not over this.

It started slowly, Melion twitching a little as if he had a small spasm. Then came more twitching, until it became a violent thing that gave way to snapping and cracking of bone. His skin seemed to open and then bleed and then fur surged forward from the blood. His skull seemed to want to invert itself as it elongated. His knees inverted before his legs became unrecognizable. He screamed and screamed and howled, the pain he was experiencing trying to find an escape.

Galahad tossed a steak at the mostly-wolf, and it was swallowed with almost no chewing.

“There we go,” Galahad murmured, “Isn't that nice?”

Another steak, handed over this time. The wolf that was probably still a little bit Melion took it and devoured it.

“Easy,” Galahad's voice was something Morgause had never heard from him before, “There we go.”

Galahad stroked the wolf's neck, his fur slick with blood and his head lowered. 

Morgause shifted the rope so that is was in one hand and let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

They were all going to get through the night alive.

–

Melion awoke on the couch, exhausted and in pain and covered in blood, but it only smelled like his own.

He blinked few times and realized _he was on a couch._ It wasn't torn to shreds, no fuzzy white bits of couch interior all over the room.

There was even a blanket over him.

“Wha -” He tried to as. He found he felt weak – that wasn't unusual – but he could move. Slowly, but he had the energy to move.

“Easy,” Guinevere told him as she steadied him, “You're probably weak.”

“Understatement,” Melion muttered, “What...happened?”

“It worked,” Guinevere sounded almost as relieved as Melion felt hearing it, “You spent a few hours growling at the mirror, but other than that you sniffed around the suite and tried to play fetch with one of Galahad's sneakers.”

“No,” Melion felt his face heat up.

“The shoe almost survived,” Galahad held up a very chewed-on sneaker.

“Oh no,” Melion buried his face in his hands, “Sorry.”

“It was kinda funny,” Galahad shrugged, “I'm making breakfast. Any requests.”

“Any food sounds good,” Melion couldn't believe he was still hungry.

But...he hadn't destroyed anything. Hadn't tried to kill anyone – or worse, succeeded. He'd eaten more steak in a day than he had in the past several years.

Someone had made sure he fell asleep somewhere soft, had covered him with a blanket.

These people _cared_ and he'd nearly ran them over.

“How'd you know it would work?” Melion asked.

“Physics and biology kind of smushed together,” Galahad explained, “Energy needs to be there to be burned, and needs to be replaced once it's depleted. Calories _are_ energy, quite literally, and steaks have a lot of both fat and protein, so they'll give you immediate energy for burn during the transformation – the fat – and more sustained energy from the protein.”

Melion wasn't entirely convinced that was how it worked, but it had worked nevertheless.

Guinevere slipped him a note scrawled on the hotel's free notepad that read, _'He might be insane, we know.'_

Melion ate the note.


	7. Liminal Spaces

It hadn't been Lamorak's idea, nor had he been in agreement, but nevertheless he found himself in charge of writing everyone's name on little strips of paper and putting them on a crudely-drawn map of the Washington, DC area to represent where they'd first been recognized by another who knew them from Camelot.

_“I've seen your handwriting,”_ Kay had informed everyone, _“It's actually legible.”_ And well, apparently with that assessment he'd lost his right to argue that he should not be standing in front of everyone where he was no longer offered the protection of Gareth and his spray bottle. Or the protection of Lancelot, but for some reason Gareth seemed more threatening than their King's Champion over this matter in particular.

The idea was that, once this stage was done, they would then superimpose the holes over a map of England and see if the locations had anything to do with where they were born the first time around. Or maybe see if there were parallels between where they heard of Camelot the first time and where they first reconnected with Camelot this life. He wasn't too sure about the details or the plan, only that IF things lined up, they'd have a better idea of where they might find others.

_Where we might find our King_ went unspoken.

And, not that he was counting, but there had been seven fights over who met who and where the meetings happened and what order things happened in. It seemed like there were a few clusters who knew their histories: Lancelot, Gawain, and Mordred knew exactly when they'd first seen each other, and Gawain knew when he'd seen Kay and Bedivere the first time. Kay and Bedivere declined to comment exactly where they first met beyond Percival was the last recognized, but seeing as he was the youngest, Lamorak supposed that made sense.

Beyond that, it all fell apart.

Tristan, Dinadan, and Palamedes apparently all came into the fold separately, which made no sense to Lamorak. They'd been so close to each other – still were so close to each other – why would the universe scatter them to the wind like that?

The brothers were unclear on when and/or where Agrivane, Gaheris, and Gareth came in exactly. It sounded like _Lancelot_ was the one to find Gareth, Gawain found Gaheris – that made **some** sense, seeing as the younger two had been squires to Lancelot and Gawain, respectively. Agrivane seemed to be an after-thought, the brother who may as well have just wandered in an open door in a storm and decided he'd be staying before he knew his family actually lived there.

Lamorak was pretty sure he was thinking of stray cats and not Agrivane, but he supposed the distinction didn't matter if it was true.

Kay and Bedivere had been the ones to find Bors, but they had found him halfway across the country and wouldn't say how or exactly where. Lamorak had shrugged and placed Bors' pin on the ceiling. 

Lamorak realized that, if he wanted to, he could convince himself that it was the combined efforts of Kay and Bedivere that were pulling Camelot together while Lancelot had been the one to provide housing. He considered it, but decided against it when he realized that would only lead to an unreasonable amount of questions and probably exactly zero answers.

What felt like an eternity later, everyone had pins either on the map or in absurd places to indicate the group had decided they did not know the price at which Kay and Bedivere gave up their secrets. Or perhaps they did not want to know what price the couple would ask of them. Both, Lamorak decided, it was both.

He took a look around the room to see if anyone would volunteer a map of England, be it printed or drawn or scribbled in what might have been pasta sauce or blood. Any map would do, really. After everything between his first life and tonight, he thought he knew chaos and was learning to channel it into something he could work with.

“So uh,” Percival spoke for the first time that night, “where _was_ Camelot, anyways?”

Lamorak was wrong about what he knew.

–

Arthur was sulking. Even he could admit it this time.

He thought it had been a good idea, to call his fa – to call Uther and ask him where their first lives went so wrong. He wanted to know what his life could have looked like if Uther hadn't given in to the Merlin's so-called wisdom and had allowed Arthur to grow up alongside his siblings.

Had Arthur known what it was like to be raised by blood.

Uther had snapped at him and told him nothing would have been different, in the end. The same people will always betray you and the same pain will always cast a shadow on your brightest days.

Arthur had hung up at that.

He did not call his mother, did not want to worry her with how cruel Uther was still capable of being. He supposed she knew, anyways, and did not want to hear the pain of being reminded in her voice. Instead, he tried to imagine what the person who _did_ raise him would have said in this situation.

After much debate with his demons, Arthur decided Sir Ector would have told him that it is never one choice that changes the future, but countless choices by countless people and spirits alike.

He wondered if Sir Ector was out there, if his foster-brother – even thinking his name felt too much like pain right now – missed Ector as much as Arthur did.

He wondered if the stars were truly indifferent to the choices people made or if it was the choices of a people that directed the stars.

–

Galahad had spent the last fifty miles calling their most recent addition _Mel_ , and Melion didn't seem to mind, so Morgause hadn't bothered to correct the boy.

Melion hadn't exactly been excited to join them at first – exhausted and so cautious it would have been paranoia if he didn't turn into an animal once a month and destroy his apartment – but Galahad was a persistent young man and knew how to reawaken the call of home in anyone, no matter how much they'd done to themselves to bury the call so deeply it wasn't supposed to reawaken for another lifetime or several.

Morgause thought it was a dead thing her mind would eventually discard, but when Guinevere and Galahad had shown up at the small-town library she'd been trying to disappear into, wanted to fade into the town's fabric such that fate might leave her behind, she felt it spark back to life.

Where Melion had been afraid but resigned, she'd been furious. She'd demanded to know what gave them the right to try to come and pull her out of her life like they were doing.

_“You need Camelot as much as it needs you,”_ the boy had told her, _“We're going to bring everybody home.”_

She'd broken, then and there on the pavement of the library parking lot. Guinevere knelt down beside her and let her break while Galahad watched over them and sent worried strangers the other way. She'd invited them back to her almost impossibly tiny rental house for dinner and they actually talked about Camelot and Orkney and how the Merlin had managed to ruin everything even from his supernatural prison.

They did not demand she come with them, did not try to force her to leave the life she was trying to build.

_“We want you to know you have the **choice** ,”_ Guinevere had told her, _“that you're not alone.”_

And something about that was even more freeing than becoming someone else entirely.

“I have to piss,” Guinevere was informing Mel, who looked absolutely scandalized.

“Next exit's a few miles still,” Galahad was tapping at his phone screen, “Can you wait or is this an emergency?”

“...is there a Waffle House?” Guinevere asked.

“If there is can you wait?” Galahad asked, “This is a fucking desert. You piss on the side of the road and anybody who passes by is going to see you.”

“More water than it's gotten in years put together,” Morgause couldn't help herself.

“I can wait,” Guinevere rolled her eyes, “but seriously, is there a Waffle House? I want some damned Waffles.”

“I'll see if I can get the Archangel fucking Michael himself to damn your waffles if that's what you need,” Galahad handed his phone to Mel, directions pulled up.

“I feel the angels might take issue with your language,” Mel sounded like he wasn't entirely sure he believed himself.

Galahad just laughed and said, “Oh, believe me, they've said much worse.”

Guinevere started laughing so hard that Morgause wondered about their ability to go to Waffle House anyways.


	8. Chapter 8

Dinadan had hoped to keep the whole breakfast cooking thing quiet and quick. Palamedes wasn't helping with either of those things.

“No!” he hissed as he slapped Palamedes' hand with the spatula, “You get one when I'm done!”

“Those are done!” Palamedes argued.

“Don't make me get Tristan,” Dinadan threatened, “I will get Tristan to distract you.”

“Not a threat,” Palamedes person said with a low chuckle.

“You'll wake Lamorak!” Dinadan warned.

They were usually worried about waking Kay on the rare Sunday mornings that the former Seneschal slept in, but they'd already heard some shuffling about from the room that might have actually been a bedroom, might have been meant to be a dining room.

They were not used to having someone sleeping on the couch. Even the Orkney brothers – who, Dinadan had to admit, he still could find no fondness for save Gareth, who he still wasn't convinced was actually related – kept to their shared master bedroom no matter how loud or violent any fights they'd had were.

“Already awake,” Lamorak's voice was muffled by the pillow, “Don't worry about it.”

“How do you feel about turkey bacon?” Dinadan asked.

“Food?” Lamorak seemed confused.

“Yeah, sure,” Dinadan shrugged, “Where there's enough for three, there's enough for four.”

“Uh,” Lamorak sat up and blinked a few times, “thanks.”

Dinadan flashed him a thumbs-up and jerked his chin towards the fridge. Palamedes grabbed two more slices of turkey bacon and found room on the griddle.

Lamorak pulled the blanket he'd been sleeping under around him – Dinadan had never seen that blanket before and had no idea whose it might be – and shuffled over to the kitchen entryway.

“So uh,” Lamorak cleared his throat, “Dinadan. Can we...what happened...”

“Palamedes and Tristan know,” Dinadan did not look up from the griddle, “Also, should have asked you how you feel about pancakes, too.”

“Food is fine,” Lamorak assured him, “How do you live with them while being so unafraid?”

“I realized,” Dinadan handed the spatula to Palamedes and turned his attention to Lamorak, “that I used to be too timid, put too much faith on peace happening within Camelot as it spread across the lands at the hands of Arthur and, well, us,” Dinadan let out a heavy sigh, “If it...if they wanted to hurt me again, I'd be faster and stronger.”

Lamorak let Dinadan's words sink in, eyes wide.

“I didn't have to,” Dinadan added, “They've...something's different about them. Somehow Gareth has taken control of the family and I think the proximity to everyone else makes them more...if not kinder, more careful in how they execute their anger and paranoia.”

Lamorak nearly brought up how Gaheris had lunged at him without a second thought, but then he remembered how quick both Dinadan and Gareth had been to tackle Gaheris, how Gareth had acted as a barrier between Lamorak and Gaheris all night.

Dinadan had a point.

“I'm not even worried about anyone messing with my food,” Palamedes added, “If we bring in halal meat, they, er, nobody will contaminate it.”

“That might be fear of Kay,” Lamorak was still skeptical.

“If anyone fucks with anyone's food, I'm siccing Gareth on them,” Kay said as he opened the door to his bedroom, “They may still be afraid of me, but they're _terrified_ of Gareth. He has the feral energy of the rest of his brothers, Lancelot's sense of righteousness, and iron nerves from working in Camelot's kitchens for years.”

Dinadan snorted a laugh before he asked, “How much did you hear?”

“Everything,” Kay answered honestly, “Door's wood but the walls next to it are thin as hell.”

Dinadan, Palamedes, and Lamorak all grimaced.

“I'm not going to ask you to tell me what happened,” Kay looked between them, “but I will ask you to consider what value there would be in getting everyone on the same page.”

“And what risk!” Bedivere called.

Dinadan looked at Palamedes for a long while, then to Lamorak, then back to Palamedes. He did not look at Kay, afraid that if he found anger he would respond in kind and if he found pity he might break, undoing all the work he'd done to steel himself against living with his murderers.

Kay made a noncommittal noise and disappeared back into his room, shutting the door behind him.

“I don't know,” Dinadan said quietly, “I don't know.”

“I don't, either,” Lamorak pulled the blanket tighter around him, “I do know I have another show to drive down to.”

“Even after you found Kay?” Dinadan asked the second half of his question first, so he added: “You booked another show?” 

It sounded accusatory when all he'd meant was to express his confusion. Even with his murders down the hall, this was more home than the place he'd been raised could have ever been. He couldn't imagine living in a separate house, didn't want to know what it would be like to not have the people who knew what it was like to feel so lost despite knowing more about your soul than everyone else around you.

That Lamorak would hunt down Kay – and by extension Camelot – and then just _leave_? He didn't get it.

“I might have been wrong,” Lamorak said so quietly that Dinadan almost missed it, “And then what? I spend three days at a show I couldn't really afford and sit with my disappointment _and_ don't try to recoup my losses.”

“If money's the issue...” Dinadan started and then stopped. He wasn't sure what he was about to offer – a loan, money freely given, peace of mind, permission to stay? Hell, he wasn't sure he _could_ offer those things.

“I need to think about it,” Lamorak scratched at the back of his head absently, “I...I didn't really plan ahead for if I was right.”

“Where's your show?” Palamedes asked as if it was the most sensible question.

“Rural Pennsylvania,” Lamorak told him, “There are some shops up near it that I want to scour. You'd be amazed what people will get rid of when someone dies without appraising it.”

“What about stolen goods?” Dinadan interrupted, “Native artifacts and such.”

“If I saw them and recognized them, I'd return them,” Lamorak blinked, “Why?”

“Just,” Dinadan chewed on his lip, “the way my mom never got to know her culture, always feared what she'd lose if she tried to be who her blood called her to be...”

Lamorak put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Dinadan's shoulder and squeezed a little. Dinadan put his hand over Lamorak's squeezed briefly, and let his hand fall back to his side.

“I'll try not to have a surprise therapy session and-or trauma dump over breakfast,” Dinadan managed something that looked like a smile but didn't touch the rest of his face, “Sorry.”

“It's,” Lamorak wasn't going to say it was okay, because it wasn't okay at all, “Thanks, for sharing.”

“You're welcome,” Dinadan responded, a reflexive thing, “Er. You know.”

Lamorak couldn't help the small laugh that escaped.

–

Lamorak had left without much fanfare. Save Gareth, the Orkney brothers stayed in their room, ignoring breakfast and not even reading texts Lancelot sent them to let them know there was food, let them know Lamorak was leaving, let them know Lamorak had left.

After everyone else seemed to fall into whatever their Sunday routine was, Lancelot went back down to his basement suite.

He'd planned on getting his bedding in a pile to wash, cleaning the shower and coffee pot, and doing some basic meal prep for his upcoming week of lunches that would invariably be eaten with one hand while the other hand carried on working.

When he did instead was sit on his sheetless bed and start to cry.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, how loud or silent he'd been, but when the mattress dipped next to him and he felt an arm rest against his, he jumped and nearly swung.

“Lance,” Gareth said quietly, “it's just me.”

“Sorry,” Lancelot's knee-jerk reaction was to apologize.

“For what?” Gareth wasn't sure if he was actually asking or if he was giving Lancelot permission to let whatever his soul was tired of holding spill out.

It seemed to have been the latter, because Lancelot spoke of all his fears for this life, loosed his beliefs that no matter what he did, no matter what he was able to offer anyone, he wasn't their King or the one they were fated to rally around. Without Arthur, Lancelot was convinced everything would fall apart and the loneliness he felt in the basement suite while everyone else had _someone_ would seem like a good dream compared to what an empty house would feel like.

Gareth rested his head on Lancelot's shoulder and Listened.

“What you must think of me,” Lancelot sniffed and scrubbed at his nose with the cuff of his sweater, “I fear I am a far cry from the Champion you knew.”

“I disagree,” Gareth wasn't sure what words were supposed tom come after that, but he knew it couldn't be silence that followed, “I don't know much about how you wound up with this house or how you don't ever ask anyone for rent or bill money, or how you found the strength to **be** the epicenter of...whatever this is, but _this_ is what a Champion would do.”

“Break down when someone leaves after only staying a few hours?” Lancelot couldn't help but tear himself down.

“Be human,” Gareth let silence follow this time.

–

Dinadan was sitting on Palamedes' lap while Tristan sat next to Palamedes. Dinadan had his legs over Tristan's and Tristan wrapped his arms around Dinadan's legs.

“How are you feeling?” Palamedes asked.

“Like shit,” Dinadan huffed, “I...I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Palamedes did not push.

Tristan squeezed Dinadan's legs and Dinadan managed a small, sad smile.

–

Determined to shake the melancholy that threatened to snare his mind and not let go for perhaps lifetimes, Arthur spent his morning commute looking up craft-type hobbies that were easiest to get into.

If he could stay busy, he might be able to distract himself long enough to find some sort of _direction_ he was meant to go now that he had gotten the chance to meet his mother, that there was some small flicker of hope that he may yet find his Knights, or even his Queen.

He made a small list of potential hobbies and quickly determined that the nearest craft store was on the Maryland side of the red line – the exact opposite direction he'd want to go if he were going straight home.

He sighed and resigned himself to getting home late.

–

Acting on instinct, Gawain had told his brothers to call in sick while Gaheris was in the shower. He couldn't explain it, but he knew something was so, so wrong and whatever it was was coming to the surface. Mordred explained he could not – he was still in his probationary period – but promised to see what he could do to get home as early as possible.

Mordred had still been at work when Gaheris broke and told them it had been _him_ who killed their mother, not Lamorak. Gaheris swore all he remembered was himself and Lamorak going into her chambers to ask if she knew where the tax records for some of the further-flung settlements were kept when he saw a monster – something twice his size and more – lunging at him. He'd drawn his sword and aimed for the beast's neck, hoping that he would be both strong enough and fast enough to take the head off.

He was, and he watch as his mother's head rolled to his feet.

He could not understand what had happened, did not know why he saw such a horrible thing. He did know that when he saw Lamorak again, all he could feel was rage that the other Knight stood there and did nothing. Now, he just hated himself and wished the universe did not have room for him in the space that would surround Arthur should this be the life they were meant to rally.

Gawain realized he had the blood of _two_ innocent Knights on his hands, and there was no time or cleaner in the universe that could get him clean again.

Beyond that, the implication that _Arthur may not show up this life and all the hope Gawain had dared to cultivate was nothing but a chain keeping him forever the Knight who wanted to be better than he knew how to be_ unseated something within him.

He was glad he called out of work.

With Lamorak here and then gone, there was no chance to apologize to him. Not that an apology would be enough to undo things, Gawain knew.

He could at least apologize to Dinadan. Again, not something he could undo or make better. But he could still extend his sorrow that reached even deeper now that he knew the truth of the darkest day Orkney had ever faced.

–

Bedivere hadn't noticed the lack of alarm, hadn't stirred when the normal breakfast parade came in and noticed there was no breakfast on this particular Monday. When he finally did awake on his own, there was light coming in through the windows and Kay sound asleep next to him.

“Kay,” Bedivere shook Kay gently, “Kay, we overslept.”

“Didn' ge' ah w'k'nd,” Kay mumbled into his pillow, “'s my Sunday.”

Bedivere supposed that made sense, but he would have appreciated a heads up that their weekday routine was being thrown out the window.

“So uh,” Bedivere did not get out of bed, “did you want to do anything with your day off?”

“Not laundry,” Kay turned his head towards Bedivere, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” Bedivere twisted and reached behind him to grab his phone, “About half-past nine.”

“Really?” Kay said through a yawn, “I do not remember the last time I slept this late.”

“You should do it more often,” Bedivere was sitting up anyways, “I almost feel rested.”

“I mostly feel a mixture of anxiety and, uh,” Kay paused to stretch, “anxiety, mostly, I think.”

Bedivere frowned and moved so that his back was against the couch and his knees were pulled up towards his chest.

“Did I say it wrong?” Kay asked, looking up towards Bedivere but not moving.

“No,” Bedivere put a hand on Kay's head, “It's just...”

“No one's _left_ before,” Kay finished for him. Bedivere nodded.

“I miss Arthur,” Kay said after the silence went on for long enough, “I mean, I've missed him since I **remembered** , but it's different today.”

Bedivere made a noise caught between an agreement and pain and started to stroke Kay's hair absently.

“Keep doing that and you're going to put me back to sleep,” Kay warned.

Bedivere chuckled but didn't stop.

–

Tristan had been watching the clock for seventeen minutes. He knew it was usually Dinadan who was ready to go at exactly five, but Dinadan hadn't been quite right all day.

He hadn't been quite right all of Sunday, either, and it was likely related to, well.

Tristan didn't inherently believe in violence being someone's first reaction, but as with all beliefs, there were exceptions.

_No,_ he reminded himself, _Not exceptions. Limits._

And if anyone ever, ever tried to hurt Dinadan, especially for something like knowing some of the people their King trusted most murdered someone in cold blood and decided Dinadan was nothing more to the world than a loose end they needed to _take care of_ , he was going to do as much damage as he could.

“Hey,” Tristan said quietly, “you almost ready to get going?”

“I was actually thinking of taking up knitting again,” Dinadan said without looking up, “It's been a solid decade, but...I really just want to use a couple of large needles and have something useful come of it.”

“You could also take up felting,” Tristan suggested, “Or maybe cross-stitching or embroidery.” He'd heard they all involved a lot of stabbing things with needles until art fell out.

“All three,” Dinadan decided, “then maybe I'll be able to talk about it a bit.”

“Did you want me to go with you, or...” Tristan trailed off. He knew the answer was going to be no – Dinadan needed time alone to clear his head. It was a healthy thing, Tristan knew, but he still felt rather helpless and a little useless,

“Nah,” Dinadan shook his head, “Thank you, though.”

“Of course,” Tristan replied. He put his laptop to sleep and stood up to stretch the budding stiffness out of his back and arms, “Take your time. Hell, get yourself dinner if you want. Just, if you change your mind...”

“Call and you'll be there,” Dinadan looked up and offered Tristan a small smile, “I appreciate you beyond words.”

They walked out of the building and to the Metro together in a comfortable silence. Dinadan's normal chatter and cheerful demeanor were absent, but Tristan did not try to force conversation for the sake of filling the pocket of silence they'd created within the city. The approaching autumn seemed determine to run out the last bits of summer from the air, the wind biting through Dinadan's sweater. He shivered and pulled his jacket closed but did not fasten it.

Dinadan hadn't considered that they'd both be headed the same direction for a stop. It was crowded – no more than usual – but today it felt like drowning on land. He let his shoulders drop and leaned on Tristan as the train pressed on despite being almost too bloated with people looking to go home or to their second job or to pick up their kids or -

\- it would never stop amazing Dinadan how lives managed to intersect like they did on trains. Everyone had their own stories, their own goals and fears and demons and dreams they carried with them. And, placing aside exceptions so rare they may as well not be considered while making blanket statements, all these strangers' lives would go on with their day, never intersecting with his life again.

He gave Tristan's hand a squeeze as the train rolled to a stop. 

“I'll keep you up to date,” Dinadan promised, “Thank you.”

He was so focused on slipping out of the train and onto the platform despite the wall of bodies that seemed intent on keeping him on the train and away from the craft supplies that he missed Tristan's smile.

Getting out of the station and onto the street was a lot of narrowly missing being elbowed by several people who just didn't see him. He knew he was smaller than Palamedes and Tristan, but he didn't think he was so small he might remain unseen by so many people.

He let his feet take him to his destination; he'd been there before and would be there again. A sea of still-strangers surrounded him, passed him, let him disappear into the masses.

The store was crowded, but it made sense – it wasn't even 5:30 yet. It was still very much rush hour, and it seemed there were a lot of people who _also_ had the idea to get craft supplies on a Monday night.

He'd already forgotten the things that involved stabbing other things until art fell out that Tristan had mentioned, so he headed directly to the yard isle.

The further back in the store he got, the fewer people there were. It made sense, in a way – the things people needed for their kids' grade school projects and their own quick crafts were in the front while the supplies used on projects someone could spend hundreds of hours on only to have someone online offer to buy it for less than the supplies cost would be located in the back of the store. If they were willing to spend that much time on a project, they had the time to walk across the entire store.

_How unreasonably ablist,_ Dinadan shook his head.

He wasn't the only one in the yarn isle, he realized. Another man, not much older than him, was looking at the shelves he'd planted himself in front of as if they might have the answers to riddles he was given by a wandering sphinx lifetimes ago.

Dinadan took a deep breath before asking, “Did you need some help?”

“Actually, yes,” the man turned towards him, “I was....” he trailed off.

“Well fuck me,” was Dinadan all Dinadan could say as the soul-deep type of recognition set in, “I mean, er, we've been looking for you, Sir?”

Arthur, to Dinadan's relief, laughed like it was genuinely funny.


	9. Don't You Touch That Casserole

Tristan swore the ghost of Dinadan's hand held his the entire walk from the Metro stop to the house. He knew this was impossible: Dinadan was still alive, and even if he wasn't, he would be causing chaos.

He let himself hear the sounds of the neighborhood and the small state highway that separated one neighborhood from another. Birds were somewhere, and from the sounds of it they were having an argument.

“I wanted that worm! _No,_ ” Tristan started narrating the fight, “I was first! _But I was stronger, so I stole it from you!_ Steal from someone your own size! _If I did that I might lose._ ”

He stopped before it got more morbid.

There were cars, their engines drowning out the sound of their tired rolling over asphalt. The streets were dry, which meant the _swoosh_ sound of tires wasn't there. He heard a child's laughter, once, and a few dogs bark and one owner call their dog back inside, the commotion they made in retrieving their dog more disruptive that the dog had been.

When he finally got to the house, he was surprised to see Lancelot, Gareth, Kay, Bedivere, and Bors all sitting in the living room.

“Welcome home!” Lancelot called over his shoulder, “Dinner's in the oven and I was eliminated from Mario Cart in the first round.”

“Mario cart has rounds?” Tristan tilted his head to the side, “Also, thanks.”

“It does when we play,” Lancelot shrugged, “No idea if that's what more, uh, rule-bound people call it.

“Oi!” Kay elbowed Lancelot without looking away.

Tristan decided he didn't want to know how this whole thing was established. Instead, he hung his bag and jacket on the hook he always used, dug his phone out of his jacket pocked, and sat on the back of the couch to watch.

“Where's Dinadan?” Gareth asked.

Tristan decided “picking up knitting supplies,” was the safest answer.

“Cool,” Gareth shrugged, “Didn't know he could knit.”

“You should ask him about it,” Tristan suggested. He wasn't going to spill Dinadan's history, no matter how mundane. That wasn't his place.

Palamedes wandered into the living room and looked around. He opened his mouth, but Tristan said, “He's getting yarn and knitting needles,” before Palamedes found words.

“Ah, good,” Palamedes nodded, “Good,” he said it again, and it seemed like it settled on being the truth rather than something that escaped his lungs in the name of keeping whatever peace he thought needed shelter from the world.

Mordred and Percival came in, left the door ajar, took their wallets, keys, and badges out of their pockets, placed their items in an oversized bowl, and laid down on the floor with just enough room for someone to open the door and maybe take half a step into the house before having to step over them.

“Long day?” Gareth asked.

“You have no idea,” Percival said more to the floor than Gareth.

“I smell food,” Mordred whined.

“Cooking!” Kay called over his shoulder. Mordred whined again, hoping it communicated _I am exhausted and famished, please just put a plate in front of my face and let me eat it face-down like this._

Gawain was next to come home, stepping over the two on the floor as if it was an everyday occurrence. Gaheris arrived a short time later, lingering in the doorway between the living room and where all the bedrooms where before deciding to sit down next to Mordred.

When Bors got home, Kay was just taking dinner out of the oven.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bors asked after taking a few sniffs.

“”If you're thinking it's when a bunch of fresh veg and meat is about to turn so I shove it a casserole and add a can of mushroom soup concentrate, then yes,” Kay said a she set the pan down on the stove, “It still needs to cool before anyone gets served.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking,” Bors said with a smile, “Did I miss something?”

“I think we're all just,” Gareth paused and sighed, “It's all so much and dealing with it isn't something we...I...know how to do.”

“We,” Lancelot agreed, “It's like it's just hanging in the air.”

“I thought I'd be glad when he left,” Gaheris was chewing on the inside of his cheek, “but it's just _weird_ knowing someone went out of his way to find us and then left the next day.”

“It's an adjustment,” Bedivere was trying to sneak around Kay for a spoonful of too-hot-to-serve dinner and failing, “He didn't exactly receive a warm welcome.”

Gaheris hung his head and slumped forward.

“Let him travel his own path,” Bors advised, “He'll make his way back Home, and that Home may yet still be here.”

There were a few grumbles of disagreement and a loud “YOU ARE THE WORST!” from the kitchen.

“JUST ONE BITE!” Bedivere tried to go over Kay with his spoon. Kay was taller and wider than Bedivere, and Bedivere could not get his arm over Kay, even standing on his toes.

“What are you doing?” Kay looked up at the spoon, “You make no sense. I love you but goddamn where's your sense tonight.”

“Left it on the train Thursday morning,” Bedivere lunged under Kay's arms and failed again, “Just one bite, come on!”

“You're going to burn yourself,” Kay grabbed the offending spoon and held on.

There were a few scattered chuckles. Tristan wondered if this was how they acted when it was just the two of them. There was a freedom to their banter that they didn't normally allow out when they were socializing with the rest of the house.

_We need to act as a unit,_ Tristan realized, _Like we're, well, a family, bound by an oath we took in another life._

He'd figure it out. Somehow.

–

“Mel,” Galahad leaned forward, his entire torso between the driver and passenger seats, “Mel, we should check that out.” Galahad pointed at an 'ATTRACTIONS NEXT EXIT' sign that was too faded to know what any of the attractions were.

Despite any better judgments or protests that might have won their way out of his mouth and into the parts of his world that intersected with Galahad's, he went, “Sure,” and Galahad sat back and put his seat belt on.

They drove in silence until Guinevere decided that, with her navigator duties temporarily ceded to Galahad, she'd take charge of the radio.

“I swear it's all static and Evangelicals,” Guinevere muttered as she adjusted the radio dial.

“Welcome to Fuck-All, Texas,” Melion sighed, “What were you three doing out here, anyways.”

Guinevere and Morgause both looked to Galahad who made a quiet _meh_ sound before he started talking.

“I've been looking for Camelot,” Galahad tried to explain, “Well, not the place, the place is meaningless in the end. The people, though, the people count for everything.”

“How'd you know you'd find us?” Melion asked. He missed Guinevere's wince that suggested that might be a bad question, or at least a bad way to phrase it.

“I cant feel it,” Galahad's smile disappeared, “When someone called Camelot home in another life.”

“Sounds handy,” Melion knew he had no such ability, at least not from a distance. Hell, he hadn't recognized Galahad _or_ Morgause, just Guinevere, and even then that had been at arm's length. “It's...admirable, that you didn't think you were alone.”

Galahad made a noncommittal noise and didn't respond. Melion glanced up into the rear view mirror and saw something dark in Galahad's eyes he hadn't expected.

“Did you know the motel that boasts being in the middle of America isn't actually in the middle?” Galahad changed the subject entirely, “It is, however, within range of where you were.”

“I didn't know either of those things,” Melion wondered what he said that was so wrong, “Is that how you do it, power spots?”

“Makes it easier,” Galahad shrugged, “I promised Guinevere I'd tried not to get arrested if she joined my hunt, so I'm not going to go onto private property unannounced.”

“Actual middle on private property?” Melion left out half the words that he'd meant to stick in there.

“Mmhmm,” Galahad hummed, “I started in Nevada and covered the entire west coast, most of the Rocky Mountain states...”

“Quite a few south-western states,” Guinevere picked up, “At this point we're kind of going up and down the map and hoping we find someone.”

Melion considered how much more his traveling companions had to of their past lives than he did. They had friends, Morgause had children, Guinevere was _Queen._ He was...nobody, really. Someone his King had _rescued_ and welcomed into the courts. He'd never really formed a bond with anyone, never tried to love again after such a betrayal. Hell, this life hadn't been much different. Even before his, uh, curse found him again, he hadn't had friends that missed him when he withdrew into himself entirely.

These strangers were all he had, really, and he hadn't felt the loss of leaving his life behind like he'd expected.

Guinevere turned the radio up a little bit, and Melion took it as a hint the conversation needed to stop, at least at this point.

Melion took the exit and let Galahad direct him to a Waffle House. He wondered if it was possible to get tired of the chain.

He hoped not.

–

Dinadan hadn't said anything to Arthur since the craft store, but Arthur hadn't found words, either. Dinadan had simply grabbed his wrist and tugged on it as if to say _Follow me._ Arthur decided that was a great idea, and was now in the middle of a neighborhood he didn't recognize in a state he didn't live in at almost eight at night on a Monday.

When they crossed a gate into a yard that Arthur assumed was Dinadan's, the Knight paused, turned around, and said, “There's a lot of us.”

“Here?” Arthur managed. It came out more like a squeak, but Dinadan must have understood it, because he nodded. Arthur wanted to break the door down and scream for his people.

Dinadan turned the knob and opened the door without pulling his keys out, so it was probably a good thing Arthur hadn't gone with his initial impulse. Arthur had to fight not to push down Dinadan and start with the yelling anyways.

Arthur looked to his right and saw far more faces that he expected staring at him.

“That's not yarn,” Palamedes – Arthur _recognized him_ – spoke first.

“Arthur?” Lancelot – seated on the floor and almost entirely hidden – asked as he lept to his feet.

“ARTHUR!” came a cry from his left. Arthur knew that shout across time. There was not much he could do to brace himself before Kay knocked him down, a horrifying but heart-felt hug sending him crashing into the door frame. “Bedivere don't TOUCH that casserole!”

“Casserole's far from the front of my mind right now,” Bedivere sounded close, “Don't break him, we just got him back!”

“I've survived worse,” Arthur returned the hug, though with less risk of bodily harm, “Holy shit.”

Kay let go and Arthur wasn't sure his rib cage was the same shape as a few moments prior.

Arthur looked around the room, giving himself a chance to recognize everyone one at a time. Once he'd placed everyone, he let himself take a longer look at Mordred – at his son – who stared back, eyes full of fear tinted by an anger that had survived between lives.

Gareth – young Gaheris – picked up a spray bottle and spritzed Mordred directly in the face.

“No,” Gareth said, “Not tonight.”

Mordred blinked away the water and when he opened his eyes again, they seemed much clearer. Arthur felt a relief he hadn't expected wash over him and managed a small, hopeful smile.

“Got a little distracted from my craft supply hunt,” Dinadan said with a laugh.

“Wait,” Kay's one-word command had all eyes on him.

_Just like it used to be,_ Arthur realized.

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see what they were waiting for. To those who didn't know Kay well, his expression might have been read as serious, but Arthur was ready for whatever absolute fuckery was about to happen.

“You found my brother _at an art store?_ ” Kay barely stopped himself from laughing, “Seriously? _An art store?_ ”

Arthur rolled his eyes and cuffed Kay on the shoulder. Bedivere smacked Kay upside the head.

Lancelot finally made his way to Arthur and put one hand on either of his King's shoulders.

“You're real,” Lancelot breathed.

“I think so,” there was a part of Arthur that was afraid this was some sort of dream.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Kay couldn't help it, “Real or not, you're in time for dinner.”

–

Bors had expected any conversations involving _So who met who where_ and _we have everything mapped out_ and _who drew that_ and _I'm sorry I apparently don't know what the D.C.-metro area looks like, we can't all be cartographers_ and _Why is there a tack on the ceiling?_ to wait until after dinner, giving the collective shock of Dinadan bringing their King home from the store to die down.

He was quickly remembering that any and all expectations regarding conversations with their King needed to be Old Yellered the instant they showed any signs of life. They were already at _Okay, but the CEILING??_ and there was still steam rising from his dinner.

“So, everyone from my court lives here, save for Lamorak,” Arthur clarified.

“He could live here is he wanted,” Lancelot was quick to say.

“Where?” Gaheris asked, “On the couch?”

“Maybe the shed,” Arthur said without missing a beat, “Where is he?”

“Somewhere between here and his next show,” Tristan said, “Did, uh, did anyone get his number?”

Tristan was looking at Kay like he might have the answer, so Arthur looked at Kay as well. It was only a few heartbeats before everyone was looking at Kay.

“What?” Kay said around a mouthful of food, “I don't get to see clients' contact information.”

“Even if you're the one running the event?” Bedivere realized he didn't know this.

“It's a terrible policy,” Kay held up his hands, the contents of his bowl seeming a little precarious in terms of their relationship with staying put, “Doesn't change the fact I have no way to reach him.”

“Do you at least have the name of his company?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah,” Kay blinked a few times, “Are you...are we...is someone going to look it up and drive down to his next show?”

“Well we are NOW,” Bedivere whipped out his phone.

“I have work in the morning,” Kay pointed out.

“I don't work,” Bedivere countered, “Ah, it's...okay, yeah, bit of a drive, still on the east coast at least.”

“You don't have a car,” Kay noted, “I don't have a car either, and my bike is NOT being tied to that RV.”

“I have a car,” Agrivane seemed surprised he was speaking, “and don't have work.”

“Great!” Dinadan mostly wanted to hear second-hand stories of how poorly this went once it happened, “You two can take shifts and no one has to stop to sleep!”

“Sounds like a terrible idea,” Gareth was grinning, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Kay answered for them.

“If Bedivere drives like he strategizes a few hours won't matter much insofar as miles,” Arthur said like it wasn't an objectively horrifying idea.

Agrivane looked like he wanted to disappear entirely and leave his car to the nearest deep river so it, too could be left out of this.

“We leave in the morning,” Bedivere was looking at Agrivane, who was staring at his dinner like it might offer him a way out of this.

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek so he could avoid laughing.


	10. The Start of, Well, Something

Bedivere awoke with Kay one one side and Arthur on the other.

It had been like this before, on battlefields before Arthur married Guinevere – a King who wanted to be able to seek his War Marshall's advice at a moment's notice and a partner who refused to leave his side until the battle's march started.

After Arthur married Guinevere? Well.

Bedivere had theorized Arthur finally realized _why_ Kay did not wish to leave Bedivere's side and respected that. Kay thought Guinevere had had to explain it to Arthur, and Bedivere wished he could have witnessed that conversation.

Now, though, the brothers seemed to be the ones who did not want to be more than an arm's length from each other. Bedivere could not blame them; as much as they were prone to argue over which direction the wind was blowing on a day without a breeze, they _needed_ each other as a balance.

Most of the previous night has seemed surreal, perhaps even a dream. He'd had those dreams before, dreams where Arthur came home and there was a chaotic reunion. He'd always awoken with an empty feeling but never brought it up. Whatever he was feeling, he knew Kay was feeling it much, much deeper and more intensely. He did not want to cause more pain.

If this turned out to be another dream, though, Bedivere feared it might break something inside of him.

A soft knock on the door told him this was not a dream after all. His dreams never had sound, just feelings and a sense of _knowing_ what sounds were meant to be there.

Before Bedivere could respond, the door cracked open wide enough for whoever was knocking to peek inside.

“Where do you hide the bed?” Agrivane said in a stage whisper, “Oh, pull out couch, right.”

“What time is it?” Bedivere asked. There was no light coming through the windows, so he knew it wasn't a case of all three of them sleeping through Kay's alarms. Or maybe it could have been? Autumn was confusing.

“Quarter to five,” Agrivane kept his voice quiet, “You said you wanted to get going early?”

“They're awake,” Bedivere told him, “Trust me.”

“No,” Kay mumbled, “I refuse.”

“That is the worst refusal I've ever heard,” Arthur informed Kay as he sat up, “Agrivane, come in.”

“Uh,” Agrivane opened the door a little more but didn't enter, caught between obeying his King and, well, it technically wasn't Arthur's room, “I feel like I'm interrupting something.”

“Just sleep,” Bedivere assured him. Agrivane raised an eyebrow but decided against any further words.

“How are you up so early?” Kay asked, “I know you. You're never up and out of bed before seven on a weekday.”

“Haven't slept yet,” Agrivane shrugged.

“I'll need a shower,” Bedivere told Agrivane, “but yeah, it would be a good idea to be clear of four-ninety-five before rush hour starts.”

“What is _with_ rush hour, anyways?” Kay rolled so he was on his back, “How does it last so many hours?”

“You should see it in the city,” Arthur was finally sitting up, “I'm convinced it starts at five in the morning and ends at ten at night.”

“Well aware,” Kay groaned, “Go shower.”

“In a minute,” Bedivere still felt more asleep than awake, “Make me breakfast?”

“Always,” Kay promised but didn't make any movements to get out of bed. Kay looked up and over at Agrivane, who looked like he also wanted to ask. “I'll make you breakfast, too.”

“Thanks,” Agrivane tried for a smile and almost made it.

Bedivere managed to extract himself from the middle of the bed and grabbed his towel and shower caddy. He shooed Agrivane out of the way so he could get out the door.

“Agrivane,” Kay called the man back. Agrivane listened, but looked terrified, “How many days are you expecting to be gone?”

“At least two,” Agrivane told him, “Depending on how Bedivere drives, how Lamorak takes to us just showing up, and if we can really make the twelve-hour drive in one go.”

“I wouldn't worry about Bedivere's driving,” Kay said with a yawn, “You all packed?”

“I packed for three days,” Agrivane nodded but looked ready to bolt, “Figured it wouldn't hurt.”

“Thanks,” Kay finally got out of bed. It was a single movement where he seemed to roll and land on his feet without any major contortion despite the little amount of space between the bed and the wall.

Arthur grumbled and Kay threw one of the blankets at him.

Agrivane decided it was a good idea to disappear to the other side of the house for a little while.

“How do you do it?” Arthur asked, “They listen to me because I'm their King. But you. All you have to do is say someone's name and they listen like it's more vital to their survival than breathing.”

“I helped raise you,” Kay said with a laugh, “I'm glad you were King, if for no other reason than you would only follow directions under threat of death.”

Arthur shook his head but a chuckle escaped. He knew Kay had a point and there was no malice to it.

“I'll make you breakfast, too,” Kay rolled his eyes, “If I forget, tell Bedivere to pack two changes of clothes.”

Arthur nodded, knowing Kay would _not_ forget, especially now that he'd said it aloud.

–

Agrivane had assumed he could stay up all night and sleep for the first half of the drive. He'd wake up at least somewhat refreshed and take the last six hours of the drive, and Bedivere could rest. They'd left early enough that they'd be able to catch the tail end of the second day of Lamorak's show and hopefully convince him to speak with them after doors had closed for the day.

Agrivane was already so very wrong about having a chance to sleep in the car.

Bedivere seemed to believe that speed limit signs were not a rule or even a guideline, but a suggestion given by a small child to an adult and therefor could easily be acknowledged but subsequently ignored. He'd informed Bedivere of this, and all Bedivere had done was laugh and ask him if he'd ever been around small children.

Agrivane had not, but didn't think that negated his point.

“The thing with small children,” Bedivere was explaining as he weaved between two cars that weren't going far enough above the speed limit for his liking, “is then need to think you're actually taking their ideas into consideration. It doesn't matter how absurd these ideas are, or how badly they'd play out. They don't know that. Their worlds are about as small as they are, and that absolutely needs to be taken into consideration before interacting with them.”

“What about suggestions between two grown-ass adults?” Agrivane couldn't look anywhere but directly for fear of getting motion sick, “How much consideration do those suggestions get?”

“That's still contextual,” Bedivere replied, “Why?”

“Because I'm pretty sure this car's too old to be doing ninety,” Agrivane glanced at the speedometer. 

“She _is_ your car,” Bedivere shrugged and lifted his foot from the gas but didn't hit the breaks. Agrivane reminded himself that you weren't supposed to hit the breaks on the highway if it wasn't an emergency, but he knew for sure that living with his brothers has skewed his idea of an emergency.

At least Bedivere seemed to be listening to him.

–

Lamorak had taken his time getting to his next show, breaking up the driving two days and taking the back roads at a few points. He knew he might be late, but that risk bothered him much less than it usually did.

He always had his life scheduled so carefully, always knew down to the minute when he would be where.

Last week had ripped that away from him.

He hadn't thought about what would ripple out from discovering he was correct. He'd thought plenty of how he'd feel if he was wrong: deluded, perhaps a bit insane, definitely disappointed. But right?

Everything he knew about what comprised his life had been upended despite the fact he was the one who initiated it. And even though he found what and who he was looking for, he'd just...left?

Why?

He didn't have answers for himself.

He sighed and went about setting up for opening day of this week-long show.

This event company was far less helpful than Kay had been.

He couldn't believe how much he missed them despite how short his visit had been and how little he'd interacted with anyone.

–

“So uh,” Gawain was the last one awake and was surprised to see Agrivane had already left without a word, “Am I the only one who didn't know he had a job?”

“I had no idea,” Gareth grimaced, “I'd always assumed he had something part-time or remote or something.”

“Same,” Mordred was rushing to finish getting ready, “Gods, fuck, I'm going to be late.”

“Your tardiness has nothing to do with the gods fucking,” Gawain took the opening, “What do you need?”

“Lunch, make sure I've got my badge, shoes,” Mordred had been repeating the items to himself for several minutes, “Preferably to avoid seeing my father if I can help it.”

Gawain knew there was likely to be resentment between the father-son duo – between his King and his brother – but hearing it in Mordred's voice made him feel like he'd been rendered unable to help this life, too.

“I can get your lunch made,” Gareth offered, “Bedivere would have already left, too, which means Kay's up, and Arthur, too, probably.”

“Hey, uh,” Gawain stopped Gareth before he left their shared room, “What _do_ the rest of you do? I mean, Gareth, I know you're a waiter, but I have know idea where or what like, rank you are or anything like that.”

“Oh,” Gareth paused, “Just like, a normal waiter? Well out of my training period but not a shift supervisor or manager or anything.”

“Janitor, same place Percy works,” Mordred was hunting for a pair of socks.

“Some contract administrative assistant bullshit,” Gaheris huffed, “I can't seem to land anything else, length or position.”

“What about you, Gawain?” Gareth had taken another step towards the door, “What do you do?”

“Oh,” Gawain laughed but there was no humor to it, “Junior financial analyst. Job's actually in Virginia, but I haven't wanted to, you know. Move closer. Move out of here. But I also don't want to switch jobs?”

“You should see if they'll let you work from home one day a week,” Gareth suggested, “Mordred, lunch, coming right up, yes.”

Gareth slipped out into the hallway and Gawain couldn't hear his footsteps.

“Is it bad I want to take the day off?” Gaheris asked, “I mean, I know, I don't have sick days or PTO, but like...”

“It's a lot,” Mordred finished for him, “My nerves are so rattled I'm afraid one inconvenience is going to shake me apart. But so would talking with my – with Arthur.”

Gawain felt like Mordred was already pulling further away from everyone over Arthur's appearance. 

“Good thing you work with Percival,” Gaheris finally extracted himself from the nest of blankets he slept in, “Don't think there's anyone more amicable in the house.”

“Not sure amicable's a good thing, given, well,” Mordred looked around, “everything.”

“Oh please,” Gaheris rolled his eyes, “if anyone even thought about harming Percival, Bors would **know.** ”

“Pretty sure Bors in in some sore of biker gang,” Gawain nodded in agreement.

“Oh please, this is one of the richest counties in the nation,” Mordred huffed, “Like we'd have a biker gang.”

“Everywhere has gangs,” Gawain pulled a tie out of some recess of his sock drawer, “Some gangs have two wheels per member.”

“Technically a gang that has half as many cars as members fits that definition,” Gaheris pointed out.

Gawain made a strangled noise and lobbed his nearest pair of dirty socks at Gaheris, who moved out of the way.

“Going to have to do better than that,' Gaheris stuck out his tongue. A second set of socks _did_ his Gaheris in the head. “Oi!”

Mordred laughed and ran before Gaheris could think to throw anything back.

–

Percival's shift had ended over half an hour ago and he had been nearly clocked out when one of other vet techs screamed.

A patient's muzzle had come loose and while the dog hadn't bit anyone, the two techs on duty weren't strong enough to restrain it. The owner, apparently, had left to do errands across the street while her dog got its annual shots and a nail trim.

Percival had sighed and decided to help pin the dog so the muzzle could be re-secured. He had the dog's shoulders pinned with his forearm and the other two vet techs had the dog's hind end pinned, but it was still struggling.

“So if you're pinning that end,” Mordred peered around the corner , still holding his mop, “and they're pinning that end, who's handling the muzzle.”

“You are,” Percival decided, “watch your fingers.”

Percival hadn't expected Mordred to actually take care of the muzzle, but he did. Granted, all four people and the dog seemed to struggle the same amount and Mordred thought he was going to lose a finger more than once, but eventually the muzzle was secured and Percival decided to stay and hold the dog anyways.

They were not going to do the dog's nails, they decided, and the owner was just going to have to either bring her dog back or stay with her dog for the entire appointment.

“If you shoved me in a room full of strangers and started sticking me with needles, I'd try to take someone's hand off, too,” Percival told the receptionist.

“You're still here?” the clinic owner asked as he came into the lobby.

“You stuck the two smallest techs with a fearfully aggressive dog that outweighed both of them,” Percival sighed, “And Doctor Miller left the room.”

“Ah,” the clinic owner's face fell, “I can see where that would have gone horribly awry.”

Percival nodded but decided to keep his mouth shut. Mordred was seated on one of the waiting room chairs, pointedly _not_ looking at Percival or the clinic owner.

“Say,” the clinic owner was clearly about to ask for a favor, “can you take Sixteen home for the night? He doesn't need any IVs but he does need observation and a few medications through the night.”

“Sixteen?” Percival asked before he could stop himself, “the cat whose owner's about to go on vacation?”

“That's the cat,” the clinic owner nodded.

“We can take her,” Mordred wasn't doing a good job at not eavesdropping while not looking at them.

“Yeah,” Percival couldn't help the sigh, “We can take him for observation. I'll print out a clean copy of his medication instructions.”

Mordred's face lit up like he was just handed a surprise present.

Percival tasked Mordred with getting the cat into a carrier while he printed instructions, gathered the medications, and panicked.

“What if someone's allergic?” Percival asked as he and Mordred climbed into the car.

“Then she gets kept in your room,” Mordred pointed out, “No one opens your door except Bors.”

“It's his room, too,” Percival said as he turned the engine over, “Oh God, what if **Bors** is allergic to cats?”

“Pretty sure he would have told you,” Mordred countered, “what with you coming home with pet hair of all kinds on your scrubs.”

“Oh, right,” Percival started backing the car up, “It's just. I didn't ask anyone and I have no desire to explain to my employer that I live with so many other people I couldn't possibly ask them all fast enough to get back to them in a reasonable amount of time.”

“Fair,” Mordred agreed, “I'm always so nervous I'm going to slip up and mention I live with like, ten? Ten other people?”

“Uh,” Percival put the car in drive right as Sixteen started yowling in his carrier, “Ten seems a little low, but I get it. I've avoided letting everyone know I live with likely too many people for the room division to be legal.”

“I think if you're not officially charging money, it can't be counted as renting, you know, dining rooms as glorified closets to, well, reincarnated Knights of the Round...yeah, there's no way I could make up a believable cover story and stick to it,” Mordred realized.

“Well,” Percival sighed as he made it out of the parking lot, “time to go find out if anyone has cat allergies.”

Mordred deeply appreciated that Percival's biggest worry was not the return of their King, but surprise allergy problems.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur had decided he'd go to work and return to, well, technically it was _Lancelot's house_ but he'd already taken to calling the house _Camelot Redux_ in his head.

He'd go to work like it was any other Tuesday, then come back to _his people_ and see how much more his life had changed. 

He'd even borrowed a clean shirt from Lancelot and had gotten as far as getting on the train when he got off at the next stop and turned around.

Kay was waiting for him at the station. He handed his brother Bedivere's helmet without a word. Once Arthur had secured his helmet, Kay asked, “Back to the house, or somewhere we'll have some privacy?”

Arthur paused for a moment – he knew anyone else who was still at Camelot Redux was likely to want as many answers as he did, if not more. As much as he'd dreamed of finding _his people_ again, he feared it would be too much to be surrounded right now.

“Somewhere quiet,” Arthur left the interpretation up to Kay.

“Quiet it is,” Kay shrugged, “We're stopping at the house to get you chaps and a jacket first, though. Hope you can hold on tighter than you can hug.”

Arthur almost asked Kay what he meant, but the way Kay left the parking lot answered that question for him.

–

“Okay,” Dinadan stood up with five minutes left before lunch break, “Okay, I am _actually_ going to go get knitting supplies today.”

“You know what, that's fair,” Tristan was in the middle of typing, “Did you want me to grab you something from any of the food trucks?”

“I,” Dinadan paused, “Want to go to the craft store instead?”

“Yeah,” Tristan smiled and looked up at Dinadan, “That sounds excellent.”

–

Gareth had called out of work again, the weight of everything too much to deal with. He knew he was risking his job, but he would be risking losing his job if he went. He could barely hold himself together. Holding trays and remembering orders was out of the question. Gawain had also called out – Gareth assumed for similar reasons. Gaheris had gone in to work, though Gareth was beyond worried about, well, everything.

Gawain was worried, too, but he was doing what Gawain did best when faced with an uncertain situation in which he could do nothing to participate in – for better or for worse – here and now.

He tried to distract everyone around him. Today's attempt involved learning how to make a vegan steak substitute from scratch, and he'd roped Gareth into it despite Gareth's protests that just because he was a waiter didn't mean he knew how to cook everything Gawain could think of.

Gawain wouldn't hear it, pointing to the countless recipes he'd found online and Gareth's experience in Camelot's kitchens. Gareth relented and even accompanied Gawain to the grocery store.

It had gone about as well as Gareth had expected.

“Okay so,” Gawain was holding up his third failure, “I over-kneaded and we have thick vegan leather. I'll do it for less time this time.”

“I don't think time was the problem as much as pressure,” Gareth knocked the edge of the cooked version against the counter for emphasis, “You need to ease up on how much of your weight you're putting into it.”

“You can knead it then,” Gawain pouted, “I thought I **was** being gentle!”

“Fine,” Gareth rolled his eyes, “I'll knead.”

–

“So uh,” Agrivane was looking between a fold-out map he'd picked out from a small display just over the state line, “why is this going to take us twelve hours?”

“The show doesn't start until tomorrow,” Bedivere tried to convey as much information as possible without naming names or destinations, “and if it took him two days, it should take us two days, yeah?”

Agrivane felt like _maybe_ they'd had this conversation, but he was so sleep-deprived he wasn't sure he'd remember his own name if asked.

“Yeah,” Agrivane agreed mostly because he wasn't sure what grounds he had to disagree, “Yeah.”

Bedivere frowned but didn't say anything else. Still, when Agrivane went for a coffee cup, Bedivere handed him two sizes up.

Agrivane gave up hope of both sleeping and driving today as he filled the cup that seemed almost comically oversized.

–

Bedivere's jacket and chaps were too loose on Arthur, but in an emergency they'd save his life.

Kay flew more than drove, the road and the traffic disappearing in a combined blur and the horizon an wild dream they just might catch before the day was over.

Arthur was afraid he might break Kay's ribs, but he was even more afraid of the ground, so he held on like his life depended on it.

–

“Do you know when Mordred gets home?” Gawain asked, “Because I'd like to save myself the eternal embarrassment of knowing one of my brothers who didn't fail this much with me knows about this.”

“You say that like I'm not going to look at you like I know the answer every time someone asks why you don't make more food from scratch,” Gareth challenged.

“I'll take that as a no,” Gawain grumbled.

“You always think the worst of us,” Gareth was looking for a different recipe to see if that was the problem instead of them, “I know we weren't great, but we've not these static totems to the Knights Camelot made us into.”

“Not always!” Gawain was quick to defend himself, “I just don't forget how often we still fight.”

“It's been years since I've had to drive any of the rest of you to the emergency room,” Gareth pointed out, “None of us are static.”

Gawain huffed but didn't try to continue the argument.

–

“Water's out in the building,” Tristan read from his home, “Everyone's being sent home.”

“Well I am glad we brought our wallets,” Dinadan was sifting through the yarn display, “What a shame we didn't bring our work laptops with us,” he added dryly. Tristan snickered.

“We'll just have to use a whole four vacation hours,” Tristan put on a mock-shock voice, “Four!”

“What ever were we going to do with _four whole vacation hours?_ ” Dinadan picked up the jest, “Go on a cruise for people above our pay grade?”

“A week at a ski resort in the Alps?” Tristan suggested, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Perhaps a backpacking trip across half the city?” Dinadan had stopped sifting through the yarn, “I'm going to let him know we'll be home early.”

“Good idea,” Tristan was still smiling. He knew Dinadan was referring to Palamedes – they avoided names altogether when they could. Sure, they each had a name they'd been given by their unsuspecting parents this life, but those names never felt right and calling each other by their Names in public might well catch unwanted attention or worse, get them mistaken for some sort of roleplaying group by people wanting to join in.

Dinadan was quick in sending the message and slipping his phone back in his pocket.

“We could go into the city after this,” Dinadan suggested, “Check Food Truck Fiesta to see which one we want most and go from there.”

“Sounds perfect,” Tristan's face lit up.

He'd follow Dinadan anywhere, he realized, and Dinadan was likely none the wiser.

–

Kay stopped at a scenic overlook somewhere over an hour away from Camelot Redux. The autumn was just beginning to touch the trees and the near-perfect squares of farmlands were mostly brown, the harvests over and the land disused until the spring's thaw ushered in a new season of growth.

But the spring was far away, and so was anything familiar. Arthur watched Kay take off his helmet and unzip his jacket and did the same. Arthur had felt like he was he was swimming in Bedivere's protective gear when he'd put it on, but now he felt like he was drowning in it.

“Come on,” Kay jerked his head towards the edge of the overlook, “let's sit.”

Arthur followed. Kay let his legs dangle over the edge of the rock, his helmet next to him. Arthur sat on Kay's other side and put his helmet well behind him and away from the ledge.

“It's beautiful,” Arthur stared out at the rolling hills, “The mountains seem so small, though.”

“They're old,” Kay informed him, “Time has worn them down from their greatest, but they're still here. Related to the ones back...” Kay paused, “Back...” The word refused to take form and join them in the physical world.

“Home,” Arthur finished for him, “I think of it, often.”

“Camelot takes up much of my mind,” Kay admitted.

“It was never quite home,” Arthur shook his head, “My legacy, my greatest failure, sure. But home? Home was where I was _known,_ you know?”

Kay knew.

–

“Oi,” Bedivere nudge Agrivane awake, “Antique shop, come on.”

“Did I sleep for twelve hours!?” Agrivane jolted awake.

“Just two,” Bedivere shrugged, “This one claims to be known for rare and exciting finds.” Thee last four words were said as if Bedivere believed none of them, conjunction included.

“Yeah okay,” Agrivane staggered out of the car, “What are we looking for?”

“Anything someone who deals in antiques might want,” Bedivere shrugged, “Also, I need to stretch my legs.”

“I,” Agrivane looked between Bedivere, the shop, and the car, “I'm just going to sleep, sorry.”

“It's alright,” Bedivere assured him, “Here, to keep the sun off your face.” Bedivere shrugged off his jacket and tossed it at Agrivane, who nearly dropped it.

“Thanks,” Agrivane muttered as he crawled back in the passenger seat.

–

“Okay, you had a point,” Gawain muttered as he took a second bite of the faux steak Gareth had kneaded, “It didn't look any different from what I did, though.”

“Pressure,” Gareth repeated, “Yeah, we can at least cut into this one without almost raw seitan leaking out.”

“The videos made it look so easy,” Gawain complained.

“Editing software is twenty-first century magic,” Gareth raised an eyebrow, “Uh, Mordred left around eight thirty, so we probably have two and a half hours until he gets home.”

“Right,” Gawain had already forgotten about most of the morning's chaos, “Which means about three hours until Gaheris gets home.”

“I'm worried about him,” Gareth said without preamble, “I mean, more than usual.”

“It sounds like a curse,” Gawain bit the inside of his cheek to stay focused, “Like someone who wanted mom out of the picture tried to use him.”

“I can't imagine who,” Gareth sat down on the floor, “Mom was...she wasn't a Pendragon. She was basically sold to father when she was barely fifteen. Why would anyone want her..?”

“I don't know,” Gawain sat down so he was half facing Gareth, his back supported by the under-sink doors, “Everything about the last third of my life seems...like the rest of it might come apart if I poke at it too hard.”

“Yeah,” Gareth's throat felt dry, “I just. Mom.”

“If she's out there, I hope she's safe and living the life she _wants to_ lead,” Gawain felt his lower lip tremble.

“I hope she's far, far away from anyone who wished her harm,” Gareth added, “I hope we all are far, far away from anyone who helped Camelot become the disaster it was in the end.”

–

“Uther's alive,” Arthur said as he sat down, “Found each other in a laundromat.”

Kay choked on air and Arthur thumped him on the back a few times.

“I felt like I'd lost my mind,” Arthur continued, “I'd never even **met him** the first time, but there he was, waiting for his washer to finish its cycle and periodically staring at me like I was periodically staring at him. He just. Left.”

“Left,” Kay repeated.

“Well,” Arthur shook his head, “he was back a few minutes later shoving his phone at me and telling me my mother wanted to talk to me.”

“Igraine!” Kay felt the shock like a physical blow, “Igraine's alive?”

“So is Gorlois,” Arthur sighed, “Really nice people, at least from the two dinners I've had with them.”

“Oh Art,” Kay tried to smile, “I'm so glad.”

“Ah, shit,” Arthur noticed how Kay's smile didn't touch the rest of his face, “Sorry.”

“Arthur,” Kay put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, “You had your entire life ripped away from you. I'm glad this one's being kinder.”

“You and Bedivere did, too,” Arthur grimaced.

“Wouldn't have changed a thing,” Kay swore, “Well, at least about your ascension to the throne.”

“After that there's a lot I would change,” Arthur admitted, “A lot-a lot.”

–

“I could have been a better brother,” Gawain was having a breakdown on the kitchen floor, “I don't even know _how_ but I was the eldest and I had _magic_ and _the mantle of future King of Orkney_ on my shoulders and yet you were the only one who didn't wind up fucking up everything you touched.”

“Eh,” Gareth shrugged, “I did a lot of things for the wrong reasons.”

“Like what?” Gawain blanched.

–

“Oh my God,” Arthur was laughing so hard he feared he may fall off the overlook, “there were **so many** things wrong with Camelot from its inception.”

“Remember the room that was nothing but rotten wood?” Kay was laughing, too, “I swear, I could clean it a thousand times and more wood just _kept showing up._ ”

“And the room where the floor spun on nights the moon was full,” Arthur shook his head, “There was so much magic in Camelot I wish I'd've asked after.”

–

“What's that?” Agrivane slurred as Bedivere got back into the car and handed Agrivane something that felt like a snow globe.

“Very important, don't drop it,” Bedivere was starting the car in a rush, “Lamorak either hasn't been here or knows nothing of magic.”

“What?” Agrivane let Bedivere's jacket slide down to his lap and cover whatever it was he'd been charged with keeping.

“That's a scrying glass,” Bedivere already had the car out of the parking space and back in drive, “Specifically _Guinevere's_ scrying glass.”

“I didn't know you had magic,” Agrivane wanted little more than to be back home and far away from whatever was taking shape.

“Eh,” Bedivere shrugged, “You hang around Kay long enough, you start to recognize how it feels.”

“Gawain had magic and I never felt any of it,” Agrivane argued.

“Gawain's magic was passive,” Bedivere was going nowhere near the speed limit again, “He didn't have to do anything to get the sun to work. Kay's magic was active and needed to be channeled.”

“What did it feel like?” Agrivane asked despite himself.

–

“It felt like love should,” Gawain had his face in his hands, “I expected death and instead I found love.”

Gawain had spiraled pretty quickly once he'd stopped the active part of trying to make vegan steaks and shifted to the regrets he hadn't been able to shake or forgive himself for.

“I can't imagine what it must have been like,” Gareth was trying to say all the right things, “I know you loved him fiercely.”

“Both of them,” Gawain corrected, “I loved both of them so deeply their magic changed the very foundation of my soul and gave _me_ magic.”

“Strength from the sun,” Gareth couldn't have forgotten Gawain's magic if he'd tried.

“More than that,” Gawain had never explained his magics before, just let people form their own assumptions, “I drew it from things that drew _their_ energy from the sun.”

“Is that why you're vegetarian now?” Gareth asked.

“Yeah,” Gawain nodded, “I want my magic back.”

Gareth tilted his head to the side.

“I want them back,” Gawain whispered.

–

“Nobody was as discreet as they thought,” Kay was on his back, watching the clouds go by, “I could have told you who was fucking who, who was pining for who, who was trying to rise above their station through partnership rather than merit at any given moment.”

“I cannot imagine how much gossip came through the kitchens,” Arthur shook his head.

“Gossip is why you put me there,” Kay reminded him.

“Can you imagine Bedivere as keeper of the kitchens?” Arthur asked.

“Oh no,” there was a genuine fear in Kay's voice, “He would have cried the first time he made a kitchen boy cry and lost all his invisibility that kitchen management is supposed to grant you.”

“You, on the other hand, became the seneschal archetype like it's what you were born for,” Arthur praised, “and Bedivere became the perfect War Marshall.”

“He was always the strategist,” Kay was smiling, “and you were always good at stepping up to whatever role you needed to fill.”

“Including King,” Arthur's laughter died in his throat.

–

“What was it like,” Agrivane asked a question he'd wanted to ask for lifetimes, “watching someone grow up a normal boy and you blink and he's King?”

“The Arthur we'd known for his entire life just kind of disappeared in a cloud of confusion,” Bedivere drummed on the steering wheel, “and when the cloud cleared, there was a King wearing Arthur's face and holding Arthur's name, but he wasn't a boy who ran so late in the hills we all missed dinner because trying to find out what was over the next hill was more important than filing our stomachs.”

–

“I'm not surprised you two found each other first,” Arthur said, “Even before I was born, you two lived together.”

“Well,” Kay debated telling Arthur the entire story of how it was Bedivere came to live with Ector as a young boy, how Bedivere was never anyone's son and barely even Ector's charge, but didn't tell that story.

It wasn't his to tell, so there was no more to that sentence.

“You've always loved him,” Arthur's voice was a gentle thing.

–

“I think,” Gareth was swatting at Gawain's knees with the spatula they'd been using to flip the steaks, “that your love of them is kinda sweet, actually.”

“Kinda?” Gawain frowned.

“I also think it's eating you up from the inside and you're trying to will them back into your life,” Gareth added.

Gawain made a pained sound.

“At least you're trying,” Gareth stopped swatting Gawain.

There was something there, something left unsaid that made Gawain give pause.

“You have your own hole you're trying to fill,” Gawain realized, “Someone your heart hasn't forgotten.”

–

“What of Lancelot?” Arthur asked, “I barely got to speak with him last night and he was gone before I could speak with him this morning.”

“I wish I knew,” Kay sighed, “He has the basement to himself and outside of our Saturday movie nights he doesn't interact with us much.”

“He did tend to try to keep to the outside of things,” Arthur was chucking little pieces of dirt and rock off the overlook.

“I do not know if he does so by choice or because he feels he does not belong,” Kay said it like it was a secret.

“I fear it's the latter,” Arthur knew the answer, “What time does he get home from work?”

“Anywhere between three and nine,” Kay told him, “He does stuff with law and the courts and I'm not sure if he's a paralegal or a lawyer or what, but his home time is wildly irregular.”

“I'm going to corner him if I have to,” Arthur decided, “I need to know how he is.”

“Your ability to care for the person and the role they filled as separate things has always amazed me,” Kay admitted, “Even with all being King took from you in body and spirit, you wanted your people at their best.”

“I should have tried harder,” Arthur laid on his back, “done more. Maybe then things would not have fallen apart.”

–

“I became his squire,” Gareth choked on the words, “because I wanted his attention so badly and yet I knew he was someone I could not touch, could not have. He was _the King's Champion_ and I was so close to a nobody that I went unrecognized in the kitchens for years.”

“That's what I meant,” Gawain cut him off, “I was a horrible brother! You served my food and win for YEARS and yet I had no idea it was my own kin next to me.”

“I feel like not knowing kin from fried from foe was what went wrong in the end,” the words kind of fell out of Gareth.

–

“Could anything have changed it?” Agrivane was running his fingertips over the rusted iron stand that secured the scrying glass ball, “The end, I mean.”

“I don't know,” Bedivere admitted, “I like to think choice means something but I don't know.”

–

“Galahad?” Guinevere felt bad interrupting...whatever he was doing standing on the livestock gate that, when open, lead to the other half of the field the highway just happened to run through.

Did they close the highway while moving herds? Was it for farm equipment? Did the universe somehow manifest a pair livestock gates for Galahad to scale one at a time and stare into the sun like it was the coming of angels?

“We need to go East,” Galahad announced, “There's **something** there that will let us change our fates.”


	12. Chapter 12

“I want to get home before Lancelot,” Arthur was rising to his feet, “if it's possible.”

“Do you mind if I make a pitstop?” Kay was already on his feet.

“Pitstop?” Arthur asked.

“There's a little soda shop that stocks all kinds of unique flavors,” Kay sighed, “They have Bedivere's favorite.”

“Like I could say no to that,” Arthur chuckled, “Perhaps we could get something to eat, too.”

“There will be so much food to choose from,” Kay assured him, “Jacket zipped and helmet secured before I even turn the bike on, though.”

Arthur refused to admit how difficult the zipper was to get closed.

–

“We're going to call it a day,” Bedivere decided, “We'll go straight to Lamorak's show in the morning but you're in no shape to drive and I'm...the scrying glass, it's...”

“Distracting, I would imagine,” Agrivane tried to finish for him, “Sorry.”

“For what?” Bedivere asked.

“Not being able to take the rest of the drive,” Agrivane explained.

“Plans are living creatures,” Bedivere shrugged, “and as such they must be tended with care and adjustments must be made as needed.”

Agrivane thought that was a horrifying idea, but he could see its merit.

–

Palamedes met Dinadan and Tristan in front of the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with characters he couldn't read and the English long worn off by wind and rain and whatever other weather it had faced.

“I'm so glad you could make it!” Dinadan threw himself at Palamedes and held him close, “It's been a while since we've all been off in time for dinner like this.”

“Me, too,” Palamedes returned the hug with fierce intensity. Tristan hung back, his smile faltering for a moment and Palamedes caught it.

“Come on,” Dinadan was already heading down the stairs, “I'm starving and also I have to empty my bladder.”

Palamedes chuckled and rolled his eyes as he descended the stairs with much more care. Tristan walked a step behind Palamedes, careful not to catch the back of his shoes with an over-step.

“Table for three,” Palamedes told the hostess and held up three fingers together.

The hostess nodded and lead them to a table in the approximate middle of the restaurant with four seats. She took away one of the chopstick-and-fork napkin bundles and gave a small bow to tell them this would be their table.

“Thank you,” Palamedes returned the bow and sat down.

Tristan sat down across from Palamedes and put his backpack on the seat next to him before picking up the menu. Despite the smells from the buffet he knew he would order when it came time to do so, he needed to bury himself in words, static things that had concrete meaning.

“Tristan,” Palamedes put a hand on the top of Tristan's menu and guided it back to the table.

“Palamedes,” Tristan said quietly.

“I know Dinadan thinks you're just incredibly tactile,” Palamedes locked eyes with Tristan, “but I know it's more than that.”

“I'm sorry,” Tristan looked ready to bolt, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so obvious, I know you two-”

“Tristan,” Palamedes held up a hand, “Dinadan won't know you were flirting with him unless you _tell him._ ”

“Oh,” Tristan felt himself go pale, “You're okay if...”

“Yes,” Palamedes tried to assure him, “I will not begrudge you or resent you for acting on whatever it is you feel for him.”

“Even if I don't feel the same for you?” Tristan felt like guilt was stabbing him in the stomach as he asked.

Palamedes laughed and then rushed to say: “Oh, oh no, I am so sorry, laughter was not the appropriate response to that,” he took a deep breath, “I do not expect you to feel for me what you feel for him. We're different people entirely.”

It made sense to Tristan, but he still couldn't quell the rising panic. Palamedes took his hand off Tristan's menu.

“Act on your own time,” Palamedes told him, “I just want to make sure you know whatever happens does not affect our friendship.”

“Thanks,” Tristan feared he was going to cry in the middle of the buffet.

“Easy breaths,” Palamedes told him.

“Thanks,” Tristan meant it, “Really, thanks.”

“Of course,” Palamedes also meant it.

“He's taking a while,” Tristan noticed.

“I'm willing to bet he is already at the buffet,” Palamedes shook his head, “I wonder how much people order from the menu and how much they just do the buffet.”

“It's be interesting to know,” Tristan was thankful for the change of subject. He wasn't sure how much more his heart could take without just telling Dinadan everything in lieu of dinner, “I wonder if it varies by season.”

“Bunches of hungry tourists,” Palamedes suggested.

“Pretty sure the tourists stick to like, McDonald's,” Tristan countered, “This is a place for locals.”

“Point,” Palamedes agreed.

Dinadan seemed to come out of nowhere with two plates. He dropped one in front of Tristan and said, “They'd just brought out those shrimp rolls you love and I wanted to make sure you got them fresh.”

In that moment, Tristan realized Dinadan hadn't been the only one oblivious to how deep their care for each other ran.

–

“How far east?” Mel asked, “I mean, we've got up to fifteen hundred miles or so of _east_ to consider.”

“Not much further from here,” Galahad was driving, “Guinevere, how do we feel about breaking and entering?”

“NO!” Guinevere swatted him on the back of the head.

“Well, time to find a hotel then,” Galahad handed his phone to Mel, “Can you find one near here that has at least one vacancy?”

“Uh,” Mel looked between Galahad's phone and his own, “yeah, sure.”

Leaving his life behind was feeling like a better decision with each passing day, but it was still just _weird_ following this man so young he could have been **his** son on a quest to find where this newly risen Camelot had sprouted in a country they'd only heard of in whispers.

“Breaking and entering,” Morgause repeated, “So whatever we're after is private property?”

“Pawn shop,” Galahad explained, “I saw the shop like I was _there._ ”

“Well at least we don't have to steal anything,” Morgause felt her shoulders relax.

“Oh please,” Galahad rolled his eyes, “Everybody has their price.”

“You are terrifying,” Mel informed him.

“Just angel-touched,” Galahad shrugged, “Which, same thing I guess. Any luck with that hotel?”

“Right,” Mel tapped his own phone several times before he clipped it in the vent holder, “Here.”

“Not bad at all,” Galahad glanced at the map, “If it has a continental breakfast we're shoving as many things as we can in our bags just before we check out.”

“I hope it's steak,” Guinevere joked, “Steak and eggs continental breakfast.”

“Like everyone has their price,” Galahad grimaced, “everyone also has their limits.”

Mel laughed despite not knowing what exactly was _that funny._

–

Gareth and Gawain had decided to abandon their steak-making efforts to let their secrets and fears spill in the safety of the master bedroom. They did a fair amount of cleaning up, but they were sure they left more mess behind than they realized.

“I thought I was doing so well,” Gawain admitted, “I feel like I've been lying to myself my entire life and am just now aware of it.”

“Kay's going to kill me for the state of the kitchen,” Gareth realized, “I mean, quite literally kill me.”

“I'll kill him first,” Gawain said without thinking.

“Maybe killing is bad,” Gareth had meant to say something more impactful.

“Maybe,” Gawain agreed, “I don't know how to be a good brother.”

“I think this is a good start,” Gareth sniffed.

–

Lancelot came home to what looked and felt like an empty house aside from what looked like play-dough steak bits on the top of the trash can and a fine dusting of unrecognizable crumbs all over the floor. 

He shrugged and grabbed the broom.

–

Sixteen screamed the entire ride home. It was twenty minutes, tops, but Mordred thought it might have been an hour.

“If I was in a crate just big enough for me and felt movement, I'd scream, too,” was all Percival had said when Mordred's wonderings regarding the volume and duration escaped his head.

As soon as they got into the living room, Mordred opened the crate and let the cat out.

“Wait, wait, I need to have the box set up first!” Percival tried to stop him but it was too late, “Ah shit.”

“Shit,” Mordred realized his mistake.

“Is that a cat or have I lost it?” Lancelot was sitting on the loveseat, curled up with a book.

“It's a cat,” Mordred was picking the animal up in case it decided the carpet made a good cat box, “Just for the night, though.”

“Uh,” Lancelot wasn't sure what to say.

“Box and litter!” Percival had sprinted to the car and back. He all but slammed the box onto the floor and poured the litter in so fast some splashed into the carpet, “I'll vacuum that!”

“So uh,” Lancelot was staring at the cat, “Who's the kitty?”

“This is Sixteen,” Percival sighed, “I'm sorry, I should have asked, I know, he's a patient and needs medication overnight a few times and it's easier for someone to take him home than to have at least two people stay at the clinic.”

“And you volunteered?” Lancelot watched Mordred drop the cat into the litter box. The cat, for its part, seemed uninterested in the litter and very interested in the couches.

“I got voluntold,” Percival grimaced, “I can keep him in mine and Bors' room, I promise.”

“He's a big fucker,” Lancelot assessed, “Is he friendly?”

“As far as I know,” Percival shrugged, “He's not easy to pill but he loves attention.”

“Ah,” Lancelot uncurled himself and put his book on the side table, “Sixteen,” he called to the cat.

Sixteen trotted over to Lancelot and made a little _muurp_ sound as he did so. Lncelot held out his hand and Sixteen gave it a sniff and decided Lancelot was safe enough to start grooming in front of.

“Huh,” was all Percival had to say.

“Meds,” Mordred reminded him.

“Right, shit,” Percival ran back to the car. Lancelot looked at Mordred and hoped the younger man understood the question.

“Two of them are refrigerated,” Mordred explained.

“Ah,” Lancelot didn't seem to be able to recall many words, “This cat is huge.”

“I am aware,” Mordred agreed, “He was easy to get into the carrier but then he just screamed and screamed.”

“I suppose I would to if I was stuck in a box and moved somewhere without being able to see out,” Lancelot reasoned, “though I may not be as understanding if I was in the car.”

Mordred chuckled and then realized this was not only the first time Lancelot had ever made him laugh, but also the longest conversation he'd had with Lancelot this life.

“I'm putting a note on the fridge,” Percival said as he entered the house again, “Not that I expect anyone to drink cat meds, but still.”

“I've never really been around a cat,” Mordred admitted, “They're nothing like dogs.”

“No, they aren't,” there was no taunting in Lancelot's tone, “You kind of just have to let them come to you when and if they want to.”

“You've had cats?” Mordred asked as he moved the litter box against the wall where it was less likely to get tripped over, kicked, or spilled.

“Kinda,” Lancelot shrugged, “they were neighborhood cats and I was a kid, but they liked me enough to come sit with me when I was reading.”

“Huh,” it was Mordred's turn to make sounds instead of formulate responses.

“He's a confident one,” Percival noted as he sat down on the living room floor, “Most cats hide in new environments.”

“We'll see how he does as everyone comes back,” Mordred noted.

Percival made a noise of agreement.

“I'm going to change out of my scrubs and shower,” Percival announced, “I can still feel that damned dog's fur everywhere.”

Lancelot made a noise that mostly equated to a question.

“Difficult patient,” Percival explained as he got to his feet, “It happens.”

Percival disappeared into the back of the house without another word, leaving Mordred and Lancelot alone with Sixteen.

They mostly avoided looking at each other, opting instead to watch the cat check out every accessible thing he could sniff.

Sixteen was so curious and so carefree that Mordred could almost forget one of the people Sixteen would be meeting tonight was his first father, the former king of Camelot.


	13. Chapter 13

Kay tapped Arthur's knee and gestured to the stopped traffic surrounding them. Arthur gave a thumbs up, unsure what exactly Kay was asking until Kay took off towards the exit – which was almost eerily devoid of other vehicles.

Arthur held onto Kay for dear life. Next time his brother invited him for a ride, he was declining.

Kay seemed to be a better driver once they were off the highway this time, and Arthur managed to look around to see why: a Waffle House was just up the road and there was an inordinate amount of lights, traffic circles, and he suspected even a stop sign between them and the diner. It would be impossible to go the speeds Kay seemed to favor without killing _someone else._ Arthur enjoyed the sane, safe-seeming venture.

“Waffles?” Arthur asked as soon as Kay turned off the bike.

“Coffee,” Kay corrected, “though waffles don't sound like a terrible idea.” Kay removed his helmet and clipped it to his bike.

“Somehow even more surprised,” Arthur said as he took off his helmet, “Is it usually this bad?”

“Rush hour?” Kay clarified, “No, not going south. Must be an accident. We can take the back roads at least back to the other side of the county, and by that point the county roads should be over the worst of rush hour.”

“How long have you been living,” Arthur paused, “here?”

“Current house?” Kay seemed to be doing mental math, “Twelve years? Yeah, twelve sounds about right.”

“Twelve?” Arthur nearly choked the word out.

As Kay picked a table where he could keep one eye on his bike, he let all the unspoken questions settle in Arthur's mind – had they all been together, without him, that long? Had Camelot really been just a few stops away on the damned Metro? How long had everyone else been there? Had they been looking for him?

“I know right?” Kay managed a laugh as he settled into the booth seating, “Who'd've thought I'd ever spend a decade and change in one place.”

“Fair,” Arthur shook his head but seemed relieved Kay had a direction to take the conversation that wasn't Camelot again. They'd been over most of it at the overlook – how they remembered, how long they've been having dreams of the others, the cost of Camelot's failure, what history could have looked like if they had been just a little bit better, just a bit faster, just a bit craftier. They laid bare the inadequacies they carried into this life and did their best to leave those demons at the overlook.

Arthur looked over the menu but Kay left his clipped where it was – he seemed serious about the coffee.

“So uh,” Arthur blinked a few times, “Do you normally have Tuesdays off?” He realized he hadn't asked if Kay had lost a day of work to wait for him when he invariably turned around, unable to go to his own job.

“Nah,” Kay told him, “Normally Monday to Friday, but when I work a weekend event I like to take the two days after off rather than the two days before.”

“Seven day week last week then?” Arthur did the math.

“But a three day week this week,” Kay grinned.

Arthur sighed and shook his head. Some things never changed, and Kay's ability to work more than he should without outwardly showing signs of exhaustion was one of them.

He made a mental note to ask Bedivere how Kay was actually doing as placed his order.

–

The ride back from dinner had been a lively one. There were still rush hour levels of people coming and going at each stop, sure, but there was a new kind of energy from Tristan. He was more engaged, more smiles, more of the man Palamedes remembered.

He'd long feared it was the new world that had crushed Tristan's spirit, but the more he paid attention, the less he thought is was the twenty-first century and the more it seemed to be a sort of longstanding pining that managed to transcend lifetimes.

Dinadan told stories almost the entire way home – mostly about airports and the people he saw in them. He was less chatty on the walk home, the darkness and narrow sidewalks taking most of his attention. There was something there, something unsaid that Palamedes had not been able to draw out of Dinadan.

Once they got to the house, he noticed the living room and kitchen lights were all on, but the lights in Kay and Bedivere's room were off. This meant there was at least one party cooking and at least one party either watching something or playing video games. 

“Huh,” Palamedes said aloud.

“Huh?” Dinadan paused while opening the front gate.

“All the lights,” Palamedes explained, “Usually everyone's retreated to their own rooms by now.”

“Huh,” Tristan echoed, “Wonder what's exploded.”

“No faith!” Dinadan mock-chastised. When all Tristan did was raise his eyebrows, Dinadan added, “I hope it wasn't the microwave.”

“We have a microwave?” Tristan asked.

“Come on,” Palamedes sighed, “Let's not postpone discovery.”

“Already had my key out,” Dinadan held it up for emphasis.

Dinadan bounced ahead and all but threw the door open.

“GRAB THE CAT!” someone shouted.

“Cat?” Tristan nearly pushed past Dinadan to see, “We have a cat?”

“Only for the night,” Percival's voice came from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Cat?” Palamedes put one hand on Dinadan and one hand on Tristan to remind them to finish entering the house.

“His name's Sixteen,” Mordred informed them, “Technically Percival has overnight cat duty but I think everyone wants to help.”

“Or at least pet the cat,” Gareth added. Gareth was the one who'd grabbed the cat when the door opened, and was still holding the cat tight. It was an almost obscenely large cat, eclipsing most of Gareth's torso. It looked relaxed, but Palamedes had never spent more than a handful of hours around a cat at a time so for all he knew it was doing something cats may or may not do before they go for the kill.

“His next dose of medication is now,” Percival emerged from the kitchen with a needle-free syringe filled with a clear-ish liquid, “I'd recommend letting him go unless you want your chest scratched.”

Gareth released the cat, who seemed to flop onto all fours than land on the carpet. He took one look at the syringe and tried to run.

“Oh no you don't,” Gawain grabbed the cat, “Good effort.”

“Same warning,” Percival informed him.

“Eh,” Gawain shrugged, “I've had worse.”

“Pretty sure I don't want to hear about it,” Gareth muttered. Gaheris laughed but fell silent almost immediately, his amusement replaced by horror.

“Well, it will be easier, at least,” Percival gave up any hope Gawain might let the cat go and leave Percival to his charge alone.

“How do you want to do this?” Gawain asked. Percival blinked a few times. There was some scattered laughter and at least two mutterings of _'phrasing,'_ just loud enough to be heard.

“I'll need to split this up into two rapid fire doses to avoid her choking or getting any in her lungs,” Percival ignored the commentary, “Just, uh, hold her like that, try not to let any of her legs free. I'll hold her head still.”

Percival made quick work of dispensing the medication and when he told Gawain to release the cat, Gawain did so and quickly moved back to avoid any revenge lashing out that might happen.

The cat seemed to hunker down but then reconsider. Slowly, it got up and shook its head before walking over to Bors like nothing had happened. 

“Poor thing,” Bors reached a hand down. The cat rubbed its face on Bors' hand before deciding Bors' lap was preferable. It settled in quickly, like it belonged there.

“You live there now,” Percival informed him.

“There are worse places,” Bors shrugged. He pet the cat absently.

Palamedes swore he could hear the cat purring from across the room.

–

Agrivane flopped on one of the twin beds in the tiny motel room Bedivere had managed to procure. He'd more hovered in Bedivere's general vicinity than he had been a part of the check-in process, so spaced out he missed all of the room details. It was dark despite the overhead lights being on and even though he could count five other places that might offer light if the bulbs were working, Agrivane doubted they'd bring any helpful light.

He was only a little surprised to see the room had a mini-fridge. He decided against opening it to see if it was cold, just in case there was some soft of abandoned science experiment no one had intended to start.

“Height of luxury,” Bedivere said dryly, “If I'd've known they'd offer a pool I would have brought swim trunks.”

“Really?” Agrivane asked.

“Eh,” Bedivere made a noncommittal noise, “Actually, no, probably not. I have a terrible fear of Legionnaire's Disease.”

“Remind me never to look that up,” Agrivane shivered.

“Sure?” Bedivere sounded as if he wasn't actually sure he'd prevent Agrivane from learning what additional horrors made their home in motel pools given the chance.

Agrivane wondered briefly about how clean the bedding was, but it smelled like industrial strength detergent so the worst of his fears could be put down pretty quickly.

“Did you bring anything to shower?” Bedivere asked.

“Yeah,” Agrivane didn't look towards him, the experience of being on something that wasn't moving arresting his joints, “Why?”

“Their soap and shampoo are lemongrass, so if you don't need them, I'm hoarding them,” Bedivere informed him.

“Go nuts,” Agrivane hoped Bedivere wouldn't take it literally. Bedivere's energy seemed to be almost as boundless as Kay's, and that thought was even more horrifying about what terrors swimming pools incubated.

Bedivere, seemingly satisfied with his soapy procurement, laid on the other bed with much more grace and much less noise than Agrivane had managed. 

“Any plans before bed?” Bedivere asked.

“I don't know,” Agrivane answered honestly. It felt more like an admission of weakness than a statement of face, the uncertainty of the hours between now and leaving the motel the next morning filling him with a paralyzing sort of terror he had not been expecting.

“I'm going to step out onto the balcony to call Kay,” Bedivere informed him, “I'm not sure how long I'm going to be, so feel free to put on a movie or show or whatever.”

“Sure,” Agrivane wasn't sure that was the right thing to say, but it had been loosed onto the world and as such could not be taken back.

Bedivere got up with even less noise than he'd laid down, the mattress' springs squeaking a testament to an overwhelming amount of budget slashing the motel had gone through to keep its profit margins high.

Agrivane wasn't sure if the walkway that connected all the rooms could be called a balcony, but he also wasn't sure it _wasn't_ a balcony. Did the fact it connected all of the rooms instead of jutted out from under one specific door make it less of a balcony? Was the fact it was where the building's occupants went to smoke or take semi-private phone calls or enjoy whatever quality of air was outside make it less of a walkway? Was it a space that even really had a word, or really just had an in-between quality to it that allowed people to ignore its existence unless they were engaged with the space itself?

He laid there, the liminal properties of the walkway-balcony seeming to transfer to him the more he considered the nature of...whatever it was Bedivere had disappeared to.

This didn't feel like a road trip he wished he hadn't volunteered for anymore. Sure, he'd wanted to feel useful, to do something besides take up space and bandwidth and eat other people's forgotten food before it spoiled, but the instant the doing had started in the living room the day before, he had wanted to back out. This was _Bedivere_ he was traveling with – one of the finest minds in Camelot, a figure so impressive even history remembered him fondly.

And who was he? The stories that survived, while wildly inaccurate, had not painted a picture of a man worthy of the title of Knight, nonetheless someone who'd been worthy of what Camelot should have been if the cascade of failures had been avoided. He never should have sought out the stories, never should have tried to satisfy his curiosities. Now he was stuck with the horrible knowing that what he did was _wrong_ and the wrongness had stuck through the ages.

He hadn't been – still wasn't, he knew – worthy of going on a quest with Bedivere. Bedivere, if anything, should be back with Arthur and Kay, should be -

The door's unexpected opening jolted him out of his thoughts. It was Bedivere, though if it hadn't been he would have been more than just startled, holding two bottles of water.

“Went on a little walk,” he said as he handed Agrivane a bottle, “Can't stand still, you know?”

Agrivane took the bottle without sitting up. He wasn't sure if Bedivere was actually asking or about to do some sort of monologuing, so he waited.

Bedivere shrugged and sat on the bed Agrivane wasn't lying on and grabbed the remote off the connecting nightstand. He turned on the television and Agrivane only heard a moment of sound before the sound died but the light didn't. Agrivane propped himself up on his elbows, curious.

“You want sound?” Bedivere asked without looking over.

“Oh, uh,” Agrivane had no idea, “Nah. Just wasn't expecting it to be muted.”

“Used to the light,” Bedivere explained. Agrivane couldn't tell if the half-sentences were because Bedivere was tired or because he'd managed to annoy the other man.

Agrivane laid back down. He'd brought sleep clothes, but the thought of getting up and fishing them out of his bag and crossing Bedivere's field of vision to shut himself in the bathroom in order to put them on seemed like too much. He could sleep like this, he reasoned, shoes on and legs half off the bed and everything.

“Do you shower mornings or evenings?” Bedivere asked.

“Midday,” Agrivane answered before he realized they'd likely be on the road midday, or at the very least not in a place where showering would be an option.

“Would you prefer to shower tonight or in the morning?” Bedivere amended.

“Doesn't matter,” Agrivane did not want to take Bedivere's preferred slot unwittingly.

“I'll take morning shower,” Bedivere offered, “Not that I'm worried about hot water here.”

Agrivane laughed despite the way his nerves were buzzing. He'd taken to showering in the middle of the day because, most of the time, nobody else was home...which meant almost endless hot water.

“I don't know how it is in the main bathroom,” Bedivere sounded amused, “but the little one doesn't give you warning before it goes from hot to freezing.”

“Oh no,” Agrivane felt his eyes go wide, _“Oh no.”_

“Uh-huh,” Bedivere sounded amused, “Kay's the only one willing to get up at five to shower, though.”

“If I had a choice between hot water and sleeping in, I'd sleep in,” Agrivane was pretty sure he meant it. He didn't actually get to sleep in, but he did get to go back to sleep after everyone else had left for the day, so it was kind of the same thing.

“I have no idea what I'd pick,” Bedivere chuckled, “Oh, apparently there's a cat at the house -”

“A cat??” Agrivane sat up.

“- for the night,” Bedivere finished.

“Oh,” Agrivane's face fell, “We should bring a cat home.”

“I'll ask Kay in the morning,” Bedivere said though a yawn, “Apparently there is so much excitement about the cat everyone's forgotten about sleep.”

“Just Kay?” Agrivane asked.

“Well if we get the cat the litter box is staying in one of our rooms,” Bedivere explained.

“Or the bathroom,” Agrivane pointed out.

“...that's a better idea,” Bedivere conceded. 

Agrivane hadn't expected conversation with Bedivere to be such an easy thing. If he was being completely honest, he was a little afraid of the man, both in their first life and this one. Kay was the one almost everyone had been at least a little afraid of, but Bedivere?

Bedivere could plan a war down to the movement of every soldier in every battle and still sleep the night before. Agrivane wasn't sure why more people weren't terrified of him.

Agrivane hoped this was one of those quests that made sense in hindsight. In the moment, he just felt lost.

A shower. He could manage a shower, and he could manage to walk in front of the television because Bedivere was expecting him to at some point.

One foot in front of the other.


	14. Always

Morgause had taken over driving not terribly long after Galahad (had most likely) manifested a gateway between this world and the next. (Or, perhaps, one other world, connected to the earth for as long as Galahad needed its power or wisdom or direction before it disconnected, losing itself among of infinite possible world.)

Galahad had scrawled what was probably directions to a motel on Morgause's arm with a ketchup packet before he fell asleep. It always happened like this – the Grail Knight communed with things Morgause knew she would never understand (if for no other reason that she never wished to) and rode a sort of high afterwards until he scrawled the next steps with anything but a writing utensil and slept for hours.

Everyone knew Mel had a motel already pulled up, but there was an unspoken 

Guinevere took a picture of the condiment-born map and tried to make sense of which exit was theirs and which cross streets were for crossing over and which took them down a different path.

An apt metaphor, Morgause thought, as they followed a man whose path was set by the stars and distilled into tomato-based condiments (among other things).

They got to a motel – perhaps the one Galahad meant for them to get to – and it was late and there was no energy left between the three of them still awake to do much more than secure a room and carry Galahad into their one-night refuge from a world that left no room for the heroes of old.

–

Lamorak had left out the part where his next show was a sort-of expo where he'd be one of several people who'd spent months picking through antique shops – and perhaps junk yards – for things worth more money than some young retail worker could recognize. It wasn't the nature of his work that bothered him, but the fact he periodically needed to be drowned out by others and their wares in strange rooms that almost reminded him of feast halls to keep his operating costs down.

The first day hadn't been so bad – long shows like this always left his inventory nearly bare, but that also meant he'd have the funds to start the cycle all over again. He wasn't famous among the pickers, but he'd carved a little hole for himself and thus far he'd managed to keep it.

There was something wrong, though, something _different_ now.

He refused to admit it was Camelot.

Well, whatever was going on in that house that approximated a new, Kingless Camelot. And that was it, wasn't it? Not the presence of the man who'd killed him, but the absence of their King. Fear, perhaps, that without Arthur this was to be a lifetime of wandering, of searching.

But he'd already made that life for himself, hadn't he?

–

It was always milk on the stove, wasn't it?

Figuratively, their first lifetime, if they had heat like this and milk so watery. A thing you could not take your eyes or mind off of lest everything get ruined.

Wars, once, battles and food shortages and treason had they such concise words for the horrors men could inflict.

This life, though, at least in this moment, it was literal. _Shit, honey, watch the milk, I have to take this._ Gorlois would never understand how Igraine always got a phone call while she was trying to scald milk, but he'd learned how to avoid burning it and how to keep it from becoming a frothy mess all over the stovetop and floor.

“What do you mean you yelled at him?” Igraine demanded, “Goddamn you, Uther, you can't try to make him miserable because you're miserable.”

Gorlois wasn't surprised. Igraine's relationship with Uther was...complicated this life, if he was trying to be kind about it. Igraine had seen Uther years after Gorlois bumped into her on a plane bound for an all-inclusive resort. He'd won the trip at his company's annual raffle and she'd just gotten out of a relationship and wanted to _rediscover herself_ , to use the same words she'd use.

It had been a wonderful vacation.

When she first saw Uther, though, she'd had a panic attack in the middle of the National Building Museum. What she'd previously only told Gorlois about in bits and pieces came rushing out on what felt like the longest train ride him he'd ever taken.

Gorlois was ready to move, ready to go somewhere Uther wasn't, but Igraine wanted to stay where they were. If there were three of them, she reasoned, there may be _their children_ in the coming years.

Gorlois would do almost anything to see his daughters again, and he could not blame her for wanting to see if her son was returning from whatever hell the fair folk had kept his soul in for centuries.

“No,” Igraine snapped, “You can't apologize for letting someone else make your choices for you! There is no apology grand enough for that!”

Gorlois had attempted to slay Uther and take his lands only to be slain by one of Uther's soldiers while Uther...

...he couldn't even think the words for what Igraine had gone through, if for no other reason than he had to focus on the milk.

“He's _my son_ , Uther, and if you think you can jump in and try to be a parent after everything you've done you're out of your fucking mind!”

She was screaming, but Gorlois knew better than to try to get her to calm down. She'd earned this anger. She deserved to be able to yell like this, damn the neighbors.

“No. You don't get to call me unless it's an emergency,” she snapped, “Being a fuck-up who doesn't want to take responsibility for his own damned life **is not an emergency!** ”

It was several years after Igraine's panic attack that Uther saw her. Gorlois was there, listening and watching. They'd exchanged phone numbers, Igraine and Uther, and Igraine had warned him never to call her unless he'd found Arthur before her.

Uther had called a few times throughout the years, often in a panic about his very existence and wanted to be assured Arthur would show up. Sometimes, Igraine was gentle. Sometimes, she spoke to Uther as if she believed it was him Arthur would gravitate to instead of her, some echoes of the patrilineal line of Kings they all came from.

Often times, though, it went like this. Igraine yelled the entire time she was on the phone with him and wept once one of them hung up. 

Gorlois turned the heat down on the milk.

“Fine,” Igraine seemed to sigh the word, “I don't care what you do, so long as you don't try to trap Arthur in your version of Merlin prophecy like you've trapped your sense of self.”

Igraine hung up and nearly slammed her phone down on the kitchen counter.

“It was so much more satisfying on landlines!” Igraine seethed.

Gorlois made a sound he hoped equated to agreement – there was nothing cell phones could do that replicated slamming a phone down on its base to tell whoever was on the other line they'd fucked up beyond repair.

“Sorry,” Igraine sniffed, the fight gone with the phone call.

“Whatever you need forgiveness from,” Gorlois said softly, “I will grant without a second thought.”

Igraine took the few steps she needed to and closed the gap between them. She leaned her head on Gorlois' shoulder and Gorlois wrapped one arm around her back, resting his palm at the base of her rib cage.

“Thanks,” Igraine muttered, “really.”

“Always,” he promised.

It was a promise that would echo through time and space until it found them again in this very moment.

Always.


	15. Morning After

Bedivere had woken up well before Agrivane, gotten dressed in the dark, called Kay to make sure he was up and getting ready for work, and read some of the morning news before he decided he did not want to know more about the world.

Agrivane awoke not terribly long after sunrise. His alarm was a jarring thing Bedivere hadn't heard from the Orkneys' quarter of the house that may or may not have multiple rooms.

Agrivane seemed surprised that Bedivere was awake, but crawled into the shower without a word and emerged looking ready to roll.

“Breakfast here or did you want to find a drive-through between here and the show?” Bedivere asked.

“Doesn't matter,” Agrivane shrugged.

“Drive-through it is,” Bedivere decided, “I never know how long those free breakfast buffets have been sitting out.”

“I'm never looking at _any_ buffet again,” Agrivane shuddered and picked up his bag. He handed his keys to Bedivere, who took them like it was a habit.

“I'll get us checked out on the way to the car,” Bedivere said, “Make sure you got everything.”

“I'm good,” Agrivane tugged one strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

Bedivere shrugged and lead Agrivane to the checkout desk and then to Agrivane's car. He noticed how Agrivane gripped the seat belt to tightly as he clicked it in place that his knuckles turned white.

Bedivere did his best to do the speed limit – between Kay's driving and how Lamorak drove his RV full of priceless antiques he wasn't sure what was reasonably above the speed limit – and Agrivane dozed off and on as Bedivere drove. Agrivane woke long enough to eat something from the first McDonald's Bedivere found before he dozed off again.

Agrivane seemed to be a different man entirely, but Bedivere didn't quite have words for it.

He drove and Agrivane drifted in and out of consciousness, the car's engine louder than Bedivere remembered engines being. Agrivane _had_ said the car was old, or something.

When Bedivere finally got to Lamorak's show, there were too many cars to park anywhere near the building.

“Mind if I wait in the car?” Agrivane asked when Bedivere shut off the engine.

“Uh,” Bedivere blinked a few times before he handed Agrivane his keys, “Yeah, sure, here, just in case you need the air on or something.”

“It's fall,” Agrivane pointed out as he took the keys.

“Just in case,” Bedivere repeated, “I'll be as quick as I can.”

With that, Bedivere exited the car, made sure he had his wallet and phone on him, and jogged to the building.

There was a _small entrance fee_ that made Bedivere question what people who ran shows like this thought a normal entrance fee looked like.

The hall was buzzing with activity – overlapping conversations almost masked the sheer volume of table set up. Bedivere had been at Lamorak's show, had seen his merchandise. This was not it.

Bedivere refused to give into the rising panic. He found a place to stand that was as out of the way as possible and looked up the name Lamorak was given this life and, yeah, he was in the right place.

Bedivere had to force himself not to tear through the place like he was hunting. He hated being a tourist in a place he had work to do, but there was no harm to be done in _not seeming like a threat_ among all these rich people who did not have the future of an entire kingdom's resurrection on their shoulders.

Lamorak's booth was on the opposite side of the hall, Lamorak's back to the wall. His eyes went wide when he saw Bedivere. He was talking with a visitor – perhaps a potential customer – so Bedivere pretended to be interested in Lamorak's wares.

“Excuse me,” Lamorak disengaged with the person he'd been talking with, “good sir, I did not expect you to make such a show.”

“Ah,” Bedivere tried to match Lamorak's tone and sense of urgent formality, “but is what you have to offer not worth showing up for?”

“You honor me,” Lamorak seemed to be fighting a smile, “but I fear what you seek will have to wait until the end of the day.”

“You will be worth waiting for,” Bedivere was going to fall into a hysteric laughing fit if he did not find a way to move on soon.

“You know my car,” Lamorak seemed to be as amused as Bedivere.

“I do, good man,” Bedivere offered Lamorak a small bow and wandered off.

Bedivere decided he would meet Lamorak at his RV after the show closed for the day, if for no other reason than to have a laugh at the shocked patrons.

He'd just have to tell Agrivane they were going to be there for a while. A quick glance at his phone told him he'd – somehow – already been in there for forty-five minutes.

He hoped Agrivane was alright.

–

Gaheris had no memory of how he got to work.

He drove, yes, and he parked in his assigned spot in the two-story underground garage that, despite being more expensive than taking the Metro, caught fire far less often and did not involve being treated like a man-shaped sardine, a sacrifice on the altar of necessity.

Gawain had taken the week off, the lucky bastard, and Gaheris' schedule was impossible to memorize. He didn't think Gareth even had an assigned shift.

That made him and Mordred the only ones working this disjointed Tuesday morning. He wondered if Gawain actually had the PTO or if he was just that well off that he could take a week and not have to worry about things like student loans and other forms of debt and a boss-like figure who may or may not be his actual boss but still had the capacity to find something wrong with everything he did and hold it over him as a reminder that milestones like _average_ and _acceptable_ were for other people and -

Gaheris realized he was thinking about his own life but transplanting it to this hypothetical Gawain like it would make his own life better.

He thought he'd be somewhere else by now, somewhere that he mattered or at least wasn't treated like a bother. Sure, this position and every other position had been created by someone even higher up who thought having someone who was, on technicalities, rented to them through the _talent finding agency_ so they didn't have to worry about things like benefits or leave but could still shirk man-hours onto these rented employees and -

He needed something better.

Something permanent.

“Good morning, sir,” Gaheris managed just in time for his maybe-boss to walk past him.

“I want last week's reports on my desk by the time my coffee is made,” the man Gaheris couldn't stand but had to bow down to snapped, “And you,” the man snapped and pointed at his personal assistant, “I want coffee on my desk before those reports are finished printing.”

Gaheris hated being pitted against someone else who was trying to make ends meet.

He'd make sure the coffee was there first. It wouldn't undo the sins that filled his nightmares, but it might be something.

–

The sun's first light had just started to kiss the skyline when Guinevere stepped out onto the motel's walkway. Galahad knew it was her – she was the only one who turned the doorknob as she guided the door closed, the quietest among them.

“I figured I'd find you out here,” she told him.

“I've always loved the sunrise,” Galahad kept his eyes on the horizon, “Where are we and how did we get here?”

Guinevere stepped forward so that she was standing next to Galahad. They both looked to the sun's light, the unspoken solidarity making it easier to be honest with each other.

“Somewhere in Louisiana,” Guinevere told him, “and you drew a map on Morgause's arm with the contents of a ketchup packet.”

“Oh no,” Galahad felt himself go pale, “Was I driving when I did that?”

“Mel grabbed the wheel,” Guinevere grimaced.

“I really need to stop driving after I go into trances,” Galahad shook his head, “Sorry.”

“We trust you,” Guinevere told him, “But yeah, might be a good idea.”

“I was alone for so long,” Galahad almost let his head drop, “Just me and whatever the...gateways give me and the way the angels _changed_ me.”

“I can't even try to imagine the type of alone you were,” Guinevere did her best to keep pity out of her voice, “I'm glad you found me.”

“You uprooted yourself,” Galahad shook his head, “Just up and left everything behind.”

“I hadn't been there long,” Guinevere sighed, “I didn't know anyone and despite my best efforts I wasn't...I wasn't really a part of that place, just a transplant trying to blend into a new life.”

“The memories,” Galahad let his eyes close for a moment, “If I wasn't mad before they started coming back, I am now. The angels, they're...

“Older than the old gods,” Guinevere finished for him.

“Yeah,” Galahad opened his eyes again and tilted his eyes to the sky, “I hate these gifts they left me. I feel like I've gone mad and I'll never be _allowed_ to go back.”

“Mad or not,” Guinevere put a hand on his shoulder, “we'll follow you.”

“I really appreciate how you never try to convince me I'm not mad,” he looked over towards her, neck still back as if he was still staring at the sky directly above him, “Really.”

“Eh,” Guinevere shrugged and let silence settle into the dawn's blanketing of the half-paved parking lot. She knew there was nothing she could say that would matter, and the silence felt nice.

In a few minutes, they'd go wake Mel and Morgause and see what this place had in terms of the continental breakfast the sign offered. They'd eat their fill and shove boxed cereals of bagels in their purses and backpacks and maybe muffins if they were the giant Costco ones. Those were worth the crumbs.

They'd be travelers again, following Galahad on a path the gods themselves likely wished they could follow. But, for now, they were Guinevere and Galahad, a displaced Grail Knight and Queen who had no idea what the future held.

Well, Guinevere did know one thing.

There was no way she was putting eggs in her purse, no matter how fresh they were.


	16. Morning After, part II

“Hmn,” Kay had actually hit snooze on his morning alarm and was half-asleep when Bedivere called him, “Yeah, I'm awake...yeah, I'm alright...Just exhausted...Can we talk about it tonight? If I start now I'm not getting to work on time...Thanks...Love you, too.”

It made the emptiness in the bed feel less like a wound.

The chaos of the past near-week hadn't been the chaos he thrived in; this really felt like something was shaking apart.

Arthur had called a Lyft back to his apartment maybe four hours prior. He needed a change of clothes was anxious about missing another day of work, but Kay could see the ways it hurt his foster-brother to leave. It had only been Kay and Lancelot awake at that point. Kay knew he'd be fine with so little sleep, but he worried about Lancelot.

Whether he worried about Lancelot due to lack of sleep or seeing Arthur leave – regardless of when he'd be back – he couldn't tell.

Arthur had promised to be back as soon as he could, which could mean anything. Kay made sure Arthur gave Lancelot his phone number. He wasn't sure of their history, but he knew Lancelot's loyalty to both Arthur and Camelot transcended lifetimes.

He didn't need magic to see that.

Kay realized the pre-assembled breakfast sandwiches he normally pulled from the freezer hadn't been done over the weekend – the normal weekend or this week's version of his weekend – so he pulled out his emergency reserve of single-serve cereal boxes and put more than he needed on the counter. He almost left a note that read 'sorry' but decided against it at the last possible second.

He was done being sorry for spreading himself so thin in the name of taking care of everyone else.

By the time he got to work, though, he wished he'd left the note. He worried it would seem lazy, or he'd missed where someone was gluten intolerant, or there was too much sugar, or -

He almost missed his stop.

He almost forgot to stop for coffee at the little French-inspired cafe across the street from work.

Someone called him by the name he'd been given and he almost forgot to respond.

His head was too full – Bedivere's absence and Arthur's vague too-early departure and Lamorak just up and leaving them and how whatever event he was handed first thing in the morning was going to be lackluster when compared to, well.

Just the past small handful of days, he supposed.

There were moments – weeks even – that hit harder than everything that was happening, sure, but those events had had the decency to spread themselves out over years. Hell, they'd almost let him recover.

He made a mental note to talk with Bedivere once he got home and see if there were words for what he was feeling or if it had to be left as a sort of raw emotion that gnawed at his sense of place in the universe.

–

Bedivere had been in there a while.

Agrivane had gathered based on the size of the building and number of cars that Lamorak wasn't the only antiques...dealer? Vendor?...in there. Yes, it was definitely from those observations and not Googling Lamorak's given name to find the name of the show and then Googling the show to see if that was the case. Nope, not at all.

Still, Bedivere had been in there a while.

Agrivane didn't have Bedivere's number saved, and none of the text threads from unsaved numbers seemed to be from Bedivere – how they'd shared the same house for years and Agrivane hadn't thought to save _his housemate's number_ was beyond him. Then again, he didn't have Kay's number saved either.

Or Dinadan's. Or Tristan's. Or...anyone who wasn't his brother or Lancelot's, and he was pretty sure Lancelot had changed numbers since he'd moved in.

He called Gawain.

_“What?”_ Gawain always answered the phone like that, but for some reason this time it made Agrivane wince.

“Do you have Bedivere's number?” Agrivane skipped anything resembling small talk.

“Is everything alright?” Gawain sounded genuinely worried. In Agrivane's experience, that only ever meant something was going horribly wrong and nobody had bothered to tell him yet.

“If everything was alright would I be asking for Bedivere's number?” Agrivane snapped.

“I guess not,” Gawain sighed, “Hang on, I'll need to call someone else who has it.”

“Nevermind,” Agrivane snarled and hung up. He hated that – the way Gawain tended to offer to do things for him that he was completely capable of doing on his own. Granted, in this case Gawain was correct, Agrivane doubted any of his brothers would have Bedivere's number if Gawain didn't have Bedivere's number.

Instead of waiting, Agrivane decided he was going to go in there himself.

He took a deep breath, grabbed his wallet and keys, and got out of the car.

–

Arthur showered in record time.

Sure, he did everything else in record time, too, before deciding to rent a motorized scooter to get to the office, but it was the shower cut short he felt the most.

He was tense from lack of sleep and anxiety surrounding leaving the people he'd been missing for decades – perhaps lifetimes, he only remembered the one – and the shower was no help in giving him some relief.

He hadn't wanted to leave, but he needed to be real about it – Lancelot didn't have an infinite number of suits and he needed to water his plants at some point. Nor could he just quit his job and crawl into Camelot Redux's domicile. Even if he _could_ where would he sleep?

The couches? He wasn't sure he could deal with the lack of privacy. He'd seen how late everyone had stayed up on a work night, and judged Kay's reactions as an indicator it was pretty normal.

He might be able to sleep in the basement with Lancelot, but he hadn't seen Lancelot's quarters and had no idea if there was room for him. Even if there wasn't, he knew if he asked Lancelot would say yes.

He hadn't had much of a chance to talk with his former Champion, but he could tell Lancelot's tendency to say yes to anything Arthur requested of him was still there. Hell, Lancelot may even sleep on the floor to give Arthur the bed, and Arthur didn't want to spend the foreseeable future with the guilt of knowing his friend would sacrifice anything with just a whispered question from Arthur.

He'd told Kay and Lancelot he'd be back soon, but what did soon even look like? Did every night look like last night – crawling back to his apartment unreasonably late-slash-early to change clothes and shower and check on his plants? Or should he show up on Friday nights and stay the weekend?

He knew he couldn't crash in Kay and Bedivere's every time. Well, he knew his desire not to do that was so strong it could be filed under _couldn't_ without much of a hyperbole coming into play.

There were so many questions he hadn't asked, so many things left unattended, so many _people_ he wished he'd had been able to spend time with. Mordred – Mordred hadn't done much more than look at him once and then avoid him. He couldn't blame him – he'd avoid himself, too, if his father had done the same to him.

He arrived at the office somehow further from any answers he'd hoped to find.


	17. Chapter 17

Gawain stared at his phone for what felt several minutes after Agrivane hung up. 

He had no idea what he'd said to set Agrivane off like that. He'd been trying to help, terrified Bedivere or Agrivane had wandered off from the other, or if something had happened involving Lamorak and now Agrivane was stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

He knew Agrivane wouldn't pick up if he tried to call back no matter how dire the situation – he tried not to think about the time he'd lost Agrivane at the airport when they were both barely out of college – so he texted Kay.

_From: Gawain  
To: Keeper of the Kitchen  
9:15 AM  
Hey what's Bedivere's number? Agrivane's asking but also mad at me._

Gawain tried not to check his phone too often – he knew he was in plain view of what felt like half the office – but if he kept a hand on his hip so he could keep a thumb on his pocket just close enough to feel his phone vibrate when he got a text, who was going to know?

_From: Keeper of the Kitchen  
To: Gawain  
9:17AM  
Bedivere's going to text him._

Gawain felt a flood of relief alongside a slight annoyance that Kay didn't give **him** Bedivere's number as well.

Kay's first text was followed by Bedivere's contact information. Gawain immediately felt a little guilty for the annoyance. Of course Kay wouldn't leave anything out. This was _Kay_ , after all.

Gawain quickly texted a _Thanks_ and put his phone face-down on his desk. He felt one of his legs bounce – he refused to call it anxiety but it was too much to be written off as nerves – as he tried to refocus on his work. He knew he'd called off Monday Tuesday and planned to leave at exactly five o'clock today, but that didn't make for less work that needed to be done. And besides that, _I'm actually **the** Sir Gawain from the legends and my King has shown up so work comes second right now_ seemed like a bad idea to up and announce to everyone he worked with.

For a lot of reasons.

The next time he checked his phone, there was a text from Gareth asking if he wanted to have dinner after Gareth's shift was over.

Gawain knew it was Gareth wanting to make sure he was doing alright. Gareth had a heart of gold and a constitution of steel; it was no mystery why history only barely lumped Gareth in with the rest of them. Gareth had a capacity to care for the sake of caring that also made him _gentle_ in ways that didn't make the world a dangerous place for Gareth.

Gawain was absolutely going to have dinner with Gareth, even if seven thirty seemed late for the last meal of the day.

–

The longer the morning wore on, the more excited and _driven_ Galahad seemed to become. Mel wasn't sure what it was the Grail Knight had seen, but it was so clearly different than other times this had happened before they found him. Guinevere and Morgause – he still had to fight the impulse to call them _Queen_ – seemed to be feeding on Galahad's energy. He'd come to realize Morgause hated mornings and would sleep in as late as possible, but even she didn't need to be told twice it was time to get going this morning.

Whatever Galahad was tracking down, it was something **important.**

The continental breakfast seemed to have been set up specifically to deter patrons from shoving food in their bags, but Mel still saw Guinevere cram a near-unreasonable amount of bagels into her purse when no one was facing their table. He tried not to think about the fact they were just rattling around in their, picking up any debris already there as crumbs went everywhere.

They all climbed into Mel's truck, bags strapped to the side of his truck bed and passengers strapped to their seats. Guinevere was driving while Galahad navigated. He seemed to be almost entirely in this world, but there was something about his voice that made Mel wonder if the Grail Knight was just slightly tapped into whatever trove of knowledge and horrors he never seemed terribly far from.

They arrived at a pawn shop that seemed to specialize in junk. Galahad bounced inside and the other three followed him. Mel did his best not to look between the queens for some sort of silent moral support. 

When he entered the shop, Galahad was standing in front of some shelves across from the lone cash register, face pale and mouth hanging open.

“Can I help you, sir?” an elderly man asked as he seemed to materialize between the shelves.

“A, uh, a,” Galahad stuttered, “There was a sword here?”

“Ah, yes, sorry, I've been meaning to have my grandson take that off the website,” the elderly man sounded genuinely sorry, “Sold it a month ago to a man who seemed to leave this place even quicker than he showed up.”

Mel watched as Galahad's face shifted from disbelief to horror. He looked over to Guinevere and Morgause, who seemed as shocked as Galahad. Mel knew he wasn't missing any details, so he tried to think of what missing sword could possibly make the three of them so terrified that it was loose among the general population -

_-oh_

–

Bedivere felt his pocket vibrate and it took him a moment to realize he'd received a text.

_From:Kay  
To: Bedivere  
9:15AM  
Gawain's asking for your number to send to Agrivane. I assume all is well, but he seemed worried._

_From: Bedivere  
To: Kay  
9:15AM  
All is good. Unexpected hiccup but all good. I'll text Agrivane_

_From: Kay  
To: Bedivere  
9:16AM  
Thanks. I'll let Gawain know. Love you._

_From: Bedivere  
To: Kay  
9:17AM  
Love you_

_From: Bedivere  
To: Orkney #2  
9:18AM  
Sorry, should have texted you sooner, there's something like 50 vendors in here. Found him, though, I'll update you when I get back to the car._

Bedivere was disappointed in himself for not texting Agrivane the moment he realized this whole 'find Lamorak and let him know there'd been a major development' thing wasn't going to be a fast ordeal.

He looked around and decided he was going to try to speed up the exit process.

–

Lamorak flagged down someone the venue had hired to mind his booth while he tried to find the rest rooms. Seeing Bedivere again so soon had his stomach in knots. Whatever the reason for hunting him down, it was going to tear what little remained of the very foundation he'd built his life on.

He deliberately hadn't told anyone where his show was. Hell, he hadn't even said his given name since he'd left the event he spent far too much money on trying to see if Kay really was, well, Kay. Which meant that Kay – and Bedivere by default – were the only ones who could designate whatever happened to warrant finding him worth finding him.

Except Kay wasn't here.

Lamorak needed air, and he needed it fast.

He scanned the hall for an exit sign and wanted to bolt. He didn't though, unwilling to draw attention to himself. 

The exit sign took him to what seemed to be the start of a labyrinth of hallways. He looked around and decided to go right.

There was nothing he could see that indicated what hallways lead to where, or where fresh air might be located.

He took another right and nearly ran into someone.

Lamorak took half a step back, stammering out something like an apology. He looked who he'd run into and registered who it was and took another several steps back.

“Shit,” Agrivane hissed, “Oh!”

Agrivane looked terrified. His eyes were wide and shoulders hunched forward. He was shorter than Lamorak remember at Lancelot's house. Lamorak wondered if Agrivane was as worried about physical retaliation. 

Bedivere hadn't been able to tell Lamorak _anything_ about who he traveled here with. That Agrivane was here, now, lost somewhere in the labyrinth with him suggested something was even more dire than he'd realized.

Lamorak locked eyes with Agrivane and _remembered._

He remembered Agrivane and Mordred trapping him in the forest, the anger in their eyes that made him feel like a stag caught in a snare. He had known death was coming, knew it was going to be quick but not painless.

He remembered how he tried to plead for a chance to explain, how he had no words for what happened with Gaheris, how the knife felt as it sliced his neck.

He _remembered._

He realized it was Agrivane who felt trapped now, Agrivane who feared death was coming.

Lamorak refused to take an eye for an eye.

“Have you seen an exit?” Lamorak asked.

“I don't know where I even came in,” Agrivane's voice was shaky, “Or how I got here.”

Agrivane was frozen in place. Trembling, but rooted to the spot.

“Come on,” Lamorak forced himself to relax, “Let's get back to my booth and we'll see what we can do about bringing Bedivere back to my booth.”

“He found you?” Agrivane still hadn't moved.

“Yeah,” Lamorak nodded, “Told him to meet me at the RV after the show closed for the day.”

Agrivane made a frustrated sound. It was quiet, but it was there.

“I don't have his number,” Agrivane said quietly.

“We'll figure it out,” Lamorak wasn't sure they'd figure anything out, but Agrivane seemed to believe him. Agrivane stood up straight and, yep, definitely taller than he'd been holding himself.

“How did you even get in here?” Lamorak asked.

“Open door,” Agrivane mumbled, “Not the right open door, apparently.”

So he'd managed to find a service entrance, then, likely one the cafeteria Lamorak had heard of but not checked out used to take out the trash.

Lamorak hadn't known much about Agrivane their first life. He was the second brother and his father was a King. He was overshadowed by Gawain, but who wasn't? There were no tavern ballads or camp fire songs about Agrivane. But the man was willing to kill for his brothers, so there was some loyalty there that could not be broken.

And the universe had deemed them both needed for...whatever was going to happen.

Lamorak didn't have the power to change any of that.

Agrivane followed Lamorak back to the vendor hall, seemed to almost crowd Lamorak as soon as they hit the press of people who either wanted to buy antiques or gawk at all the strange things people found and were trying to sell. Lamorak could hear Agrivane's breathing get louder and faster and shallower.

A panic attack was on its way.

“Hey,” Lamorak said quietly, “I'm up against a wall, so you can take my chair.”

Agrivane nodded but his breathing didn't change.

Lamorak thanked the booth minder and dismissed him. Agrivane sat down almost immediately, eyes closed and fingers gripping the edge of the chair.

“What helps?” Lamorak asked.

“Sorry,” Agrivane told him.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Lamorak tried to assure him.

Agrivane managed to pull his phone out of his pocket and hand it to Lamorak.

“Did Gawain ever get me Bedivere's number?” Agrivane managed.

“No,” Lamorak noted there was no passcode or other security on the lock screen, “though it does look like Bedivere texted you.”

“Huh?” Agrivane turned his face towards Lamorak but his eyes were still closed and his chest was heaving.

“Unsaved number, but yeah, couldn't be from anyone else but Bedivere,” Lamorak confirmed.

Agrivane opened one eye half-way and held out his hand. Lamorak gave him his phone back.

“All this for nothing,” Agrivane muttered as he replied to the text, “Sorry.”

“It's alright,” Lamorak hoped he wasn't lying, “Can I do anything to help?”

Agrivane shook his head no and Lamorak tried to smile. He knew it came across as a grimace despite his best efforts.

They waited there, Agrivane trying not to have a panic attack and Lamorak trying to tend to potential buyers without leaving Lamorak alone.

“Did you know you have to pay the entrance fee twice if you leave?” Bedivere managed to sneak up on both of them, “Not that I'm complaining, I am so glad you're safe, but my god have there people not heard of hand stamps?”

“It's probably for peasants,” Lamorak couldn't help himself.

Bedivere laughed like it was genuinely funny.

Still, the genuine relief in Bedivere's voice made Lamorak's stomach do strange things. He still hadn't gotten fresh air and the notion that the relief someone expresses was never greater than the fear that had been there only made Lamorak more worried about whatever it was they'd traveled here to tell him. Bedivere tried to bury the fear under venting about _a lack of hand stamps_ , but he hadn't buried it well at all.

“Sorry,” Agrivane said.

“Already forgiven,” Bedivere said with a small nod, “Tonight, RV, we'll be there.”

“Good,” was all Lamorak could think to say.

Bedivere offered Agrivane a hand and Agrivane took it and let Bedivere help him up. Lamorak watched them go, Bedivere _just behind_ Agrivane such that it looked like they were walking side by side but Bedivere was actually protecting Agrivane's back.

He shook his head and wondered how weird his life was about to get.


	18. It's a Date

_To:Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:15PM  
The meeting is already running two hours over_

_To: Tristan  
From: Dinadan  
1:17PM  
You have to be starving_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:21PM  
I might eat this table if they don't wrap up soon_

_To: Tristan  
From: Dinadan  
1:23PM  
They might take it out of your paycheck_

_To: Tristan  
From: Dinadan  
1:25PM  
Do you want me to heat your lunch and have it waiting for you when you get out?_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:25PM  
Nah. I'm going to go for tapas immediately after work_

_To:Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:26PM  
Will you come with me?_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:27PM  
To dinner. For tapas_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:27PM  
Will you come with me for tapas after work?_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Tristan  
1:27PM  
I think I just asked Dinadan on a dinner date after work today_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Dinadan  
1:27PM  
I think Tristan just asked me on a dinner date after work today_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Palamedes  
1:31PM  
How do you feel about it?_

_To: Tristan  
From: Palamedes  
1:32PM  
Have fun!_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Tristan  
1:32PM  
Oh my god I asked Dinadan on a date over text_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Dinadan  
1:33PM  
Confused? Excited? What if it isn't a date?_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Dinadan  
1:33PM  
Does it make it weird if it isn't a date and we, you know, live together?_

_To: Tristan  
From: Palamedes  
1:34PM  
Don't you two work across from each other?_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Tristan  
1:35PM  
I'm stuck in a meeting. Long, long meeting _

_To: Palamedes  
From: Tristan  
1:35PM  
It probably could have been an email_

_To: Tristan  
From: Palamedes  
1:37PM  
Really, have fun_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Palamedes  
1:40PM  
Let whatever happens, well, happen. Date or not, have fun <3_

_To: Tristan  
From: Dinadan  
1:41PM  
I'd love to do tapas dinner with you_

_To: Dinadan  
From: Tristan  
1:43PM  
I'm excited_

_To: Tristan  
From: Dinadan  
1:44PM  
It's a date_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Dinadan  
1:45PM  
I'm going on a dinner date with Tristan_

_To: Palamedes  
From: Tristan  
1:45PM  
It's a date!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun little chapter to write! Chapter 19 will be back to my normal format.


	19. After-Hours

Agrivane was sitting on the top of his car, legs crossed, burger in one hand and medium Sprite in the other. Bedivere was leaning against the car, back to Agrivane, one eye in the general direction of where he'd found Lamorak's RV, still-full McDonald's takeout bag in one hand. They'd mostly been watching other cars leave and feeling the air get colder as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

“I have never spent this much time outside of a house,” Agrivane admitted between bites, “Like, ever.”

“How's it feeling?” Bedivere asked.

“Horrifying,” Agrivane answered with his mouth full, “I never want to be outside this long again.”

“Uhm,” Bedivere wasn't quite prepared for that answer, “You do know we have at least more day until we're back home, yeah?”

“I'm trying not to think about it,” Agrivane shivered.

“...can I ask?” Bedivere left the question intentionally ambiguous.

“A lot's wrong with me,” Agrivane said with a heavy sigh, “It's just better for everyone if I stay inside.”

Bedivere was fairly sure whatever he said next wouldn't be helpful, at best. 

“Are you going to eat your dinner, or do you like cold nuggets?” Agrivane asked Bedivere.

“Crap,” Bedivere had forgotten about his dinner entirely, “Can't say I have strong opinions about cold foods meant to be hot.”

“Food disappears too quickly in the house to really go cold,” Agrivane agreed, “Even the breakfast sandwiches, and I know Kay gets up earlier than anyone.”

“I'll make sure to tell him,” Bedivere filed that pseudo-praise away as he finally opened his bag of food.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Agrivane didn't have food in his mouth this time, “but why _does_ Kay make **everyone** breakfast every weekday morning?”

“He's given me a different answer every time I've asked,” Bedivere places his box of nuggets on top of the car and grabbed a handful of fries right out of the bag.

Agrivane made a discontented noise but didn't try to find a different way to ask. He watched Bedivere eat despite his best efforts not to, both horrified and impressed at the speed at which Bedivere's food disappeared.

“What time is it?” Bedivere asked as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, “Also, we probably should have grabbed napkins.”

“Five fifty-three,” Agrivane checked his phone, “and yeah, but we should be fine as long as we don't touch any antiques, right?”

“Should be,” Bedivere agreed.

“Sorry about earlier,” Agrivane had been wanting to apologize since Bedivere had come back to retrieve him from Lamorak's booth and guided him outside without any sort of resentment of frustration evident.

“Don't worry about it,” Bedivere didn't want to be dismissive but also didn't want to draw attention to something already passed.

“No, seriously,” Agrivane sounded even more anxious than when Bedivere had found him at Lamorak's booth, “No one's ever gone back for me.”

Bedivere wanted to sigh – a reflexive thing to release some of his anger at humanity's overarching inability to care about people when it wasn't convenient – but stopped himself to avoid making Agrivane it was _him_ Bedivere was frustrated with. Instead, he looked at Agrivane and told him, “I'm glad I could.”

Agrivane opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out.

Bedivere's six o'clock alarm let him know that the show was officially over for the day.

“What now?” Agrivane asked.

“Well,” Bedivere silenced the alarm and let his phone slide back in his pocket, “I'm thinking it's far enough from here to his RV we could walk and arrive there around the same time.”

Bedivere hadn't realized he'd said _we_ until Agrivane squeaked it back at him.

“Well, we, or just me if that's what you're more comfortable with,” Bedivere corrected himself, “but I have no idea how long it's going to take and-”

“We,” Agrivane rushed to agree. He was not waiting in the car again.

“Alright then,” Bedivere gathered their food trash and put it in the back seat before locking Agrivane's car, “I have no idea where a trash can is and showing up with trash seems like a bad way to get started.”

“Wasn't going to ask and also hadn't thought of that,” Agrivane said as he slid down from the roof, “I have no idea what the RV looks like and have a feeling it's not going to be the only one in the parking lot.”

“Right,” Bedivere nodded and started walking. He could hear Agrivane's footfalls crunching some of the loose gravel in the otherwise well-paved parking lot behind him.

Lamorak's RV was a little further away than Bedivere remembered. Or maybe they'd parked further away after getting food. All the rows looked alike and there were no markers to indicate what part of the lot you were in – a gross oversight – so Bedivere had no way of knowing.

Still, Lamorak's RV hadn't moved, so once he was in the general vicinity it was easy to spot.

“It looks,” Agrivane searched for the right words, “not like the ones in movies.”

“Hadn't thought of that,” Bedivere stopped to really take the thing in. It was sleek, a metallic silver with tinted windows. It looked like you wouldn't need a retractable ladder to get inside – he hadn't paid attention to how he got in or out the first time. “Yeah, no, no it does not.”

They went onto the sidewalk to finish their trek instead of going around the back. Bedivere knocked on the door and Agrivane took a deep breath.

“Bedivere,” Lamorak said as he opened the door, “and Agrivane.”

Lamorak seemed to stare at Agrivane, trying to decide _why on earth_ Agrivane was even there.

“May we come in?” Bedivere asked.

“Right!” stepped back to give them room to get in, “Yeah, in, close the door behind you.”

Bedivere made a noise born of the indifference that was doing its best to override the uncertainty of whatever may or may not happen next.

Lamorak waited until he heard the door click shut to start talking.

“So, now that several of my prospective customers think I hired an escort,” there was no heat or accusation in Lamorak's tone, “what on earth brings you here?”

“What?” Agrivane's squeak was drowned out by Bedivere's “Oh, fuck, I'd forgotten about that.”

“You should have seen the woman I'd been helping,” Lamorak was laughing, “I thought she was going to faint.”

“Christ,” Bedivere was laughing, too, “I wish I'd've thought to look.”

“What?” Agrivane managed to actually ask instead of squeak it out.

“I don't even really know how it happened,” Bedivere had one hand on the back of the passenger seat and most of his weight supported by that hand.

“I tried to make it seem like I was shirking my other potential customers for someone important,” Lamorak was doing his best to reel his laughter in, “but the whole exchange came across like I'd hired an escort who'd shown up early, or something close to that.”

“Were that escorts who don't know the difference between AM and PM the strangest part of your day,” Bedivere's laughter stopped as the reason they'd come came back into sharp focus, “Arthur's alive.”

Lamorak's laughter died and Bedivere swore he could feel Lamorak's blood run cold.

“What type of alive?” Lamorak asked.

Bedivere took a deep breath to try to center himself before he told Lamorak as much as he knew, from Dinadan coming home with their king in tow to the realization that some light stalking was required to inform Lamorak to the two of them being the only ones who didn't work being the sole reason it was, well, the two of them come to inform Lamorak their King was alive.

“Dinadan found him in _an art store_?” was Lamorak's main takeaway.

“That was Kay's first question,” Bedivere smiled despite the gravity of the situation.

Lamorak made a sound that sounded like frustration, perhaps even anger, and looked between Bedivere and Agrivane several times.

“Bedivere,” he addressed the former War Marshal directly, “what are Camelot's next steps?”

“Get over the general shock and confusion about how the hell Arthur had been so close this entire time,” Bedivere answered without giving it any apparent thought, “After that? Who knows.”

“And Agrivane,” Lamorak turned his attention to the other man, “what do _you_ think Camelot's next steps need to be?”

“Uhh,” Agrivane reminded Lamorak of a deer caught in the headlights, “I'm not the strategist.”

Lamorak knew he looked disappointed. Agrivane winced under the force of the look and Lamorak almost felt bad about not trying to hide his reaction.

But only almost.

“Stay here and don't touch anything,” he told both of them before heading into the back of the RV.

“Uhm,” Bedivere removed his hand from the back of the seat and put both hands in his back pockets, “easy solution for that one, at least.”

Agrivane was staring at the floor, eyes lowered and head tilted mostly away from Bedivere.

“Hey,” Bedivere said quietly, “I don't know the next steps, either.”

“You at least know where we are now,” Agrivane muttered.

Lamorak reappeared holding a sword whose blade was wrapped in leather. The leather itself looked old and like someone had tried to clean a thick layer of dust off of it with a wet washcloth.

“Here,” Lamorak held the pommel end towards Bedivere, “tell me what you think.”

Lamorak noted that Bedivere looked downright unimpressed as he grabbed it, which certainly did nothing to prepare either him or Agrivane for the scream Bedivere let out once his hand was closed around it.

Bedivere dropped the thing, leaving Lamorak scrambling to steady the sword without hurting himself. Bedivere clutched his hand to his chest, eyes screwed tight.

How Agrivane managed to jump over the passenger seat to use the seat back as a shield was the least of Lamorak's questions.

“Son of a _bitch_!” Bedivere was massaging his hand like it would help. When he looked at Lamorak again, there was a burning behind him that made Lamorak feel real fear for perhaps the first time in his existence.

He'd felt fear before, sure. Fear of death, but was that not a human fear? Fear when his horse nearly reacquainted him with the ground at high speeds, fear when his bank account balance was running low, a number of things that he'd called fear, but this?

Being on the receiving end of the ire of a gentle Knight was fear without equal; Lamorak was sure of it.

“Uh,” Agrivane had meant to ask if Bedivere was okay, but he knew the answer was no, so instead only a small sound came out.

“Warn a guy before you hand him Excalibur!” Bedivere wasn't shouting, but shouting might have made Lamorak feel less terrified, “Gods, fuck, how did I not feel that?”

“I didn't feel it until I picked it up, too,” Lamorak put Excalibur on the ground, “Though, can't say I had that reaction.”

“Warn a guy!” Bedivere snapped – actually snapped – at Lamorak, “Fuck, it's...it's _angry_.”

“Angry?” Lamorak asked, “I...how?”

“Magic,” Bedivere huffed, “How did you _not_ feel its anger?”

“Can't say I have magic,” Lamorak took half a step back.

“Oh please, everyone had some sort of magic,” Bedivere grabbed Excalibur again, this time with his other hand, “Everyone likely still does, to some degree.”

Agrivane almost pointed out the part where he's never had magic.

“I'm sorry,” Lamorak felt like the next step was pleading for his life, “I am really, truly, sorry.”

“Forgiven,” Bedivere shook the leather off of Excalibur, “but, tell me, are you expecting _me_ to bring this back to Arthur? Because last time I brought Arthur back his sword, he told me to go throw it in a lake and if he does it again I might run him through myself this time.”

“No!” Agrivane reached around the seat and took the sword from Bedivere, “No tossing-holy hell this thing's heavier than I expected.”

Lamorak sighed, took three steps forward, and took the sword back.

“Are you asking me to go back to D.C.?” Lamorak asked.

“I'm not really sure what I'm asking,” Bedivere admitted, “but it may be better for all three of us if we talked it through over food.”

Agrivane wasn't sure how he was going to eat a second dinner, but he was even less sure all three of them were going to leave the RV in one piece if they stayed much longer.

“Yeah,” Lamorak let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, “over food sounds like a good idea.”

“We can take my car?” Agrivane asked instead of offered.

_Yeah,_ Agrivane said to himself as all three of them left the RV, _pretty sure I could stress-eat my way though a second dinner if I order off the kids meal._


	20. Something Like A Plan

Kay had texted Bedivere before he left work and was able to call him once he'd gotten off the Metro. He knew he'd miss Bedivere, but he wasn't expecting to feel quite so _needy_ about it.

They'd been able to talk for a little while. Bedivere filled him in as much as possible. It sounded like Bedivere was somewhere where other people were around.

It was going to be at least another two nights until Bedivere was back home, and he wanted Kay to fill him in once he'd gotten back and had a meal that wasn't fast food.

Kay suggested Bedivere get a frozen dinner and heat it up at a gas station. Bedivere had laughed like it was genuinely funny, and Kay felt a little better. If Bedivere was laughing, things hadn't gone to shit.

He'd walked to the Metro that morning because the air was crisp and the evening was supposed to be cool and, honestly, a little more fresh air wouldn't hurt. 

The driveway was almost suspiciously empty. He knew it was only ten after five, but still. Generally someone had an early shift or _something._

Kay tried not to think about how long it had been since he'd come home to an empty house; at least the lights were on in the front of the house.

He unlocked the door with one hand and grabbed the day's mail with the other. While he'd had over a decade to perfect the technique, he still wondered if they should get a stronger lock.

Lancelot was in the living room, alone and not engaged in anything. He turned his neck to look at whoever had just entered. Kay did _not_ take a deep breath and make a sound of pity-frustration, but he did consider it.

“Lance,” Kay used his nickname as he let the door shut behind him.

“If you're going to ask if I'm okay -” Lancelot started to say.

“Neither of us are okay,” Kay cut him off, “I would imagine you less than me.”

“How could he just leave?” Lancelot asked, “Lamorak, sure, that fucking sucked, but Arthur?”

“I wish I knew,” Kay let his jacket and backpack rest where he let them drop onto the floor, “Today's just felt...empty.”

“Anything from Bedivere?” Lancelot tried not to get his hopes up.

“They're at the show,” Kay told Lancelot, “and meeting Lamorak when it's wrapped up for the day.”

“That's something, at least,” Lancelot ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled louder than the situation warranted, “I've been texting Arthur off and on all day, but it's...he's...”

“You have?” Kay blinked a few times, “I mean, good, and don't know why I hadn't considered texting him after work.”

Kay wasn't allowed to have his phone out if he wasn't in the main offices; everyone in the house seemed to know this, but Lancelot was pretty sure it hadn't been Kay who'd told him.

“Idle chit chat, mostly,” Lancelot shook his head, “I don't...there's no way to ask him what it would take to get him to stay without sounding accusatory.”

“I can ask him,” Kay offered, “I have no problem with sounding accusatory.”

Lancelot managed a small laugh, but it was a sad thing.

“I thought,” Lancelot turned to actually face Kay, “I _hoped_ that if we were all here, all ready if we found him, when he -” Lancelot broke off, “I don't know what I'd thought, but it wasn't that he'd leave after two days. And it's daft, I know, thinking he wouldn't have some sort of life to consider. I just...”

“I know,” Kay sat down beside Lancelot, “I know.”

Lancelot blinked a few times in a row and looked away from a moment and Kay knew what that meant.

“Come here,” Kay put one arm over the back of the couch.

Lancelot flopped over to put his head on Kay's shoulder and Kay put his arm around Lancelot's shoulders. 

“What if he doesn't come back?” Lancelot asked.

“He will,” Kay had no doubts, “I don't know when, but I know he will.”

“You're resolute in everything you say,” Lancelot informed Kay, “How?”

“He's still Arthur,” Kay knew the sentiment he was trying to convey but wasn't sure what order to put the words in, “Despite time, place, technology, any other changes...he's still Arthur, and he wants to try to do right this time instead of charging in on blind faith.”

“Or the Merlin's faith,” Lancelot shivered.

“I would call the Merlin's faith blind,” Kay was going to punch the wizard as soon as the opportunity presented itself, even if it meant punching a very old tree with a suspiciously man-sized hole in the base of the trunk, “And I wouldn't call myself resolute in everything. Just matters where Arthur is concerned.”

“And yet, you're here,” Lancelot knew it sounded petulant.

“Because you're at this place's center,” Kay answered so quickly there could not have been thought behind it, “You were one of the four people who kept Arthur's Camelot running.”

“The other three being you, Bedivere, and Jenny,” Lancelot didn't argue with Kay, “Which, if you're here, and Bedivere's here, and Arthur's here, do you think Jenny's somewhere in the area?”

“It wouldn't surprise me,” Kay didn't want to give a binding answer, “I hope so, really.”

“Arthur loved her,” Lancelot said fondly.

Kay had admired her – Guinevere had both given Arthur an anchor unlike anything else had given him and added a depth to Camelot's inner court it was sorely lacking. She was brilliant beyond measure, more undying star than a fire.

“Camelot loved her,” Kay added.

“I'm going to need to build an addition,” Lancelot decided, “Well, get someone who knows how to build to, oh, you know what I'm getting at.”

“When Arthur decides to stay, we're going to need a place to put him,” Kay agreed, “And if Lamorak comes back, we will need a different place to put him. And _maybe_ we should spread the Orkney brothers out a little.”

“Take a house poll to see who wants their own room,” Lancelot managed something like a smile, “We've got, what, five brothers who need to be split up, three in the bedroom that has no closet -”

“Oh, pretty sure those three won't want to be split up,” Kay interrupted.

“What do – oh!” Lancelot's face flushed, “Oh, okay, so back to five, plus Arthur, maybe plus Lamorak...”

“Master bedroom could be split into three small rooms if we also knocked the door back and formed a small hallway,” Kay suggested, “So, two, one, one, that would be four more rooms with the current head count.”

“Might as well raise the roof at that point,” Lancelot tried not to think about how he'd explain why he needed six additional bedrooms while applying for a building permit.

“How many could your efficiency be split into?” Kay asked, “I realize it's been almost shamefully long since I've been downstairs.”

“Uh,” Lancelot blinked a few times, “Two, three if we're willing to redo the wiring and get rid of the kitchenette.”

“No,” Kay shook his head, “Plan two, turn the living room into two bedrooms, make the space with the kitchenette into the main hang-out space.”

“It is bigger than the living room,” Lancelot looked around.

It was an easy thing, bouncing hypotheticals back and forth, trying to figure what the best way to squish everyone in together while also maybe improving the general availability of privacy. Lancelot had almost forgotten Kay had it in him to be _genuinely friendly_ for the sake of being friendly.

Lancelot decided that, even if nothing else changed, was going to have to spend more time upstairs.

–

Mordred finished his shift late – someone had vomited all over the back room and he was only _mostly_ sure it was one of the patients. He'd had to scrub under the holding cages, which meant a long-handled mop and laying on the floor he'd just scrubbed. He felt disgusting, tired, sore, and ready to go find a way to turn the walk-in shower into a tub to soak in without having to use the other bathroom.

“Per-uh,” Mordred stopped himself for calling out for Percival by name, “Where'd you go?”

“Your ride?” one of the receptionists asked, “Out in his car, why?”

“Thanks,” Mordred said without looking at whoever had spoken. As he left, he muttered, “I didn't think I took that long.”

Percival was, indeed, in his car, but there was a familiar-looking cat on his lap.

“Sixteen!” Mordred exclaimed as he got in the car, “I didn't know we had you for another night!”

“Uhm,” Percival seemed nervous, “That's, uh, that's just the thing. I think I _may have_ adopted him?”

“May have?” Mordred froze midway into buckling his seat belt, “What? How?”

“You know how his owners were going on a trip?” Percival was trying to smile but failing.

“Yeah,” Mordred was pretty sure he'd heard something like that, “Wait, they have a cat they know needs medications every few hours and they were going to leave it up to a petsitter to do the jobs of two people?”

“I haven't seen one person successfully medicate him, so yeah,” Percival scratched Sixteen under the chin, “Anyways, they called today to say they wouldn't be picking him up before their trip and also they don't know when they're coming back.”

“Poor thing,” Mordred frowned, “So, uh, where do you come in?”

“Doc asked if I could take Sixteen for the night again and also if anyone was at my house all day so Sixteen doesn't need to be brought back and forth every day I work,” Percival sighed, “I panicked and said yes. _Do_ we have anyone home all day?”

“Agrivane, once he gets back,” Mordred volunteered his brother, “So this cat is just...staying with us for the foreseeable future?”

“At least his medications are being billed to his own...the people who dropped him off , for now,” Percival didn't say yes.

“When Agrivane gets home, we'll see how he feels about cats,” Mordred decided, “Until then, I don't think it will be hard to convince someone or multiple someones to stay home and medicate him.”

“So we're expecting someone to do the work of two people?” Percival asked.

“Have you met us?” Mordred asked with a laugh, “I think doing the work of two or more people is built into the very fabric of being from Camelot's court.”

And, really, Percival had to agree with that assessment.

–

“I know I said I shouldn't drive after I go into trances,” Galahad said while very much behind the wheel of Mel's truck and not even bothering to take the highway's posted speed limits as a suggestion, “but I am incredibly angry with the universe as a concept and do not think I'm going to sleep for the next several days on principle.”

It wasn't the worst rallying speech Morgause had heard, but it _was_ one of the more troubling.

The sword – Morgause had a very few amount of guesses as to which sword it was but no one dared speak its name – and it absence had shifted something within Galahad. He had been the hunter, tracking things only he could sense. But now? 

Now, Morgause did not have the words for what was happening.

It had not helped that the shop's...owner? Cashier?...had described the sword as _too new-looking to be the family heirloom the seller claimed it was_ and had told Galahad he didn't understand why anyone would have wanted it, nonetheless two people.

“Okay, so, consider,” Mel's knuckles were white from gripping a strap of his backpack like it might help, “that if it was a family heirloom, it was someone whose bloodline descended from one of Arthur's cousins.”

“Doesn't help find the sword,” Galahad snarled, “Gods damn the eyes of the angels themselves I have **NEVER** been _late_ to what the trances have shown me.”

“Galahad,” Guinevere said like there was no reason for abject terror in the moment they were all sharing, “what if instead of tracking the sword, you tracked the buyer?”

“Unless it's been sold we're getting the same results,” Galahad huffed.

“Are we?” Guinevere sounded unimpressed.

“We -oh,” Galahad's rage seemed to evaporate. He slowed down until he pulled over to the side of the empty highway, “Oh, you mean, follow the person because people generally don't have centuries of magic shielding them from detection and we might even be able to make a straight shot to the sword by proxy.”

“How do you know these things?” Mel asked, “Literally asking either of you up front.”

“Angels,” Galahad said at the same time Guinevere said, “The gods.”

“Somehow even more terrifying,” Mel looked like he was debating walking back home.

“So uh,” Guinevere cleared he throat, “Galahad, how about we switch, we all go eat lunch, find a motel to crash at, and come up with a plan over the next day or two?”

“Yep,” Galahad said as he cut the engine, “Good plan, great plan, we're...listening to you right now.”

Morgause wasn't sure what power exchange she'd just watched, but she was certain if history had listened to Guinevere, a lot of things would not have gone so horribly wrong.


	21. Plans for Supper

Lamorak had decided on a sit-down restaurant that, had Bedivere been out with Kay and Kay suggested it, Bedivere would have asked if Kay was sure several times based on price point alone. But since Lamorak already left and also Bedivere wasn't entirely sure what he'd yelled at Lamorak while Excalibur was bringing back every memory of his first life with distressingly sharp focus. And so, there were no voiced reservations about place or price.

Bedivere felt under-dressed to the point of feeling exposed. Agrivane looked ready to hide under the table and let Lamorak and Bedivere talk things out. Lamorak, at least, looked at home.

They were seated at a round table with one seat left empty and the irony was not lost on Bedivere.

There were no attempts at conversation until after they had all placed their orders. Lamorak had seemed to be glancing up just above Bedivere from the time they'd been seated, and Bedivere didn't notice it was a mirror until he got up to use the restroom. Paranoid or hyper-vigilant, he couldn't tell and supposed it didn't matter; Lamorak didn't trust Kay to watch his back.

“So uh,” Lamorak broke the uneasy silence, “how was the drive up here?”

“Smoother than expected,” Agrivane did not look at Bedivere as he answered.

“Good?” Lamorak could sense something had been left unsaid.

“How's the show?” Bedivere managed to ask.

“Far less eventful than my last one,” Lamorak suppressed a laugh, “though I suppose most places are less lively than the nation's capital.”

“Might want to follow D.C. with NYC next time,” Bedivere suggested.

“Spent a lot of time there?” Lamorak was genuinely curious – he knew nothing about Bedivere besides the fact he was still attached to Kay and he was, well, sitting in front of him.

“Six semesters?” Bedivere scrunched up his nose, “plus a summer, so however long that was.”

“What school?” Agrivane seemed surprised he asked.

“New York Film Academy,” Bedivere said it like it didn't mean much to him.

“Film Academy?” Lamorak repeated, “You have...three quarters of a film degree?”

“A whole screenwriting degree,” Bedivere told him, “I...had a heavy course load.”

“That's up to ten a semester!” Lamorak said loud enough to draw some attention to himself from other patrons. He cleared his throat before he spoke again. “Did you not sleep for three years?”

“Pretty much,” Bedivere shrugged, “I mean, I had...a summer off to sleep.”

“And here I thought Kay was horrifying,” Agrivane still seemed surprised he was speaking.

“Normally when people talk about power couples, they don't mean _put them together and it becomes obvious at least one of them is a god_ ,” a smile tugged at the corners of Lamorak's mouth.

“That's more Gawain's thing,” Bedivere said as quietly as he could.

Lamorak spat out his drink and Agrivane seemed to choke on air, the laughter-sputtering cacophony that erupted drawing all eyes to them. Bedivere, for his part, relaxed back into his chair and looked pleased with himself.

“Warn a man!” Lamorak managed when he could breathe again.

“Never going to unhear that,” Agrivane mumbled.

A confused runner with a look in his eyes like he'd peered into the void and the void said hello nearly dropped their food onto the table while trying to place it down gently. 

They ate in silence, Bedivere fearing his dinner companions might choke if he made them laugh again and Bedivere's dinner companions worried Bedivere's quick wit was a choking hazard.

“Dessert?” their waiter asked as he cleared their plates.

All three of them looked at each other before deciding Lamorak was the appointed decision maker for this particular question.

“No, thank you,” Lamorak told the waiter.

Bedivere almost signed in relief.

They made small talk from words with no lasting impact until their check was placed face-down in the center of the table.

Bedivere went to grab it, but Lamorak was faster.

“I'll be there Sunday,” Lamorak said as he grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket, “but I'm sleeping in my RV this time.”


	22. Tables or Tapas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your normal story pacing for 100% fluff.

Dinadan considered himself a fairly easy-going man; there was little in this life that made him feel ill at ease and even less that rattled him. Things were just that – things. They would come and go. People too, and he was proud of himself for the connections he'd foraged that stood the test of time and death.

Disruptions happened – he had dealing them whittled into an art. Sure, he could get restless, but who didn't from time to time.

The last three hours of work after telling Tristan dinner was a date were among the most excruciating hours of his adult life.

He had no idea about the workplace fraternization policy and didn't want to look it up. He also had no idea how to continue his normal banter with Tristan that kept their little bubble in the office lively. There was something new there, something Dinadan couldn't tell if he hadn't noticed before or was new entirely.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent time with Tristan without Palamedes; he and Palamedes had come to Lancelot's together. Tristan had found them near two years later. It was a natural thing, having Tristan move into their bedroom. Kay and Bedivere had already claimed the maybe-dining room, Gawain and Gaheris had the master bedroom, and Bors had a room that wasn't much bigger than a small walk-in closet. Besides, they'd spent years with Tristan in Lancelot's castle their last life; how different could it be?

Turns out not constantly being on the move and also having anywhere in the inhabitable world no more than a day away made everything different.

Dinadan's cursor hovered over the _clock out_ button for the last seven minutes of work. When five o'clock hit, he had his computer shut down, coat on, and laptop bag slung over his shoulder in record time.

“Someone's excited,” Tristan teased.

“You have no idea,” Dinadan wasn't quite sure what he meant, but Tristan's face flushed and Dinadan felt like he'd said the right words.

As soon as they were out of the building, Dinadan grabbed Tristan's hand. Tristan squeezed and didn't let go.

“Closest tapas to work?” Dinadan asked.

“If I wasn't still ready to eat a table, I'd suggest we go into the city,” Tristan said with a small laugh, “Yeah, closest one's Jaleo.”

“Isn't that a Jose Andres place?” Dinadan asked.

“Probably?” Tristan was mostly focused on tapas.

“Come on,” Dinadan tugged a little, “Let's go get tapas.”

They walked in silence, both _nervous_ in ways they didn't have words for. Still, their nerves didn't erode the familiar comfort.

If they walked a little quicker once the restaurant was in sight, who could blame them?

“Table for two,” Tristan told the hostess. She smiled and told them to follow her. They were seated in the middle of the restaurant and handed their menus. The hostess wished them a lovely meal and disappeared back to the front of the restaurant.

“Don't let me forget to tip her on the way out,” Tristan said as he started looking over the menu.

“I won't,” Dinadan promised, “I can't believe they have wait staff pay without the expected tips,” he paused, “I mean, I can _believe it,_ it just infuriates me that people who keep entire industries running rely on the kindness of others to survive.”

“Same thought, less eloquence,” Tristan grimaced, “How are we doing this?”

“Each order three and see what we get?” Dinadan suggested, “Or four, if you're feeling four.”

“Less inclined to eat the table here,” Tristan looked up from his menu, “Four sounds like a good idea.”

“Do you mind if I get a drink?” Dinadan asked.

“Not at all,” Tristan blinked a few times, “You drink?”

“Rarely,” Dinadan looked a little sheepish, “and never when Palamedes is around.”

Tristan squinted a little bit and Dinadan continued: “I know I _could_ drink around him and I _could_ eat pork around him, but it feels...what's the word for more than just rude?”

“Disrespectful?” Tristan suggested.

“Yes,” Dinadan snapped his fingers on both hands and pointed at Tristan, “That's the word!”

“I follow,” Tristan ignored the finger guns, “I guess I hadn't really thought about it like that.”

“I love bacon and booze,” Dinadan added, “but I love him more. Not that's he's, like, forbidden from wither, but...I've just circled back around here.”

Tristan nodded, not quite sure how visible he felt while discussing Dinadan's loyalty to Palamedes.

As if on cue, a waiter appeared at their table. Drink orders were taken alongside their food orders. The waiter almost gave a small bow before they all but melted into the surrounding environment.

“Servers should be allowed to yell back,” Dinadan said with no preamble.

“Throw drinks back at people,” Tristan agreed.

“Inform screaming patrons that _they_ are the reason their kids are crying,” Dinadan added.

“Call diners' bosses and file a complaint,” Tristan said with a small laugh, “It would be such a different world.”

“Good different,” Dinadan nodded, “but still different.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a little while until Dinadan asked, “So this is a date-date, right?”

“I hope so,” Tristan said before his brain caught up, “I mean, yes, to me, this is a date-date.”

“Good,” Dinadan said with a small, nervous smile Tristan hadn't seen before, “I...good.”

Dinadan put his forearm on the table, hand extended towards Tristan. Tristan's face lit up for a moment before he did the same, his hand grabbing Dinadan's. 

“Do we talk about this before or after food?” Tristan asked.

“Now is good,” Dinadan said, “And during. And after.”

Tristan should have expected Dinadan's answer to provide some relief for his nerves, but there was still an unexpected quality to the rush of relief he felt.

“I don't really know where to start,” a small laugh escaped Tristan, this one born of the nerves that seemed unwilling to relinquish control of his tongue.

“We can pick a place along the line,” Dinadan suggested, “It'll all come full-circle.”

“That's one of the things I like most of you,” Tristan decided that was as good of a place as any to start, “You always have this...this faith, this ability to believe that all things will come around.”

“It's less energy than most of the alternatives,” Dinadan shrugged, “but I'm glad you like it.” Tristan squeezed Dinadan's hand and Dinadan managed a small smile that seemed to have a ghost of a deeply personal sadness behind it despite its warmth.

Conversation didn't come for a while – drinks did, then food did, and words found their way again.

“Forks?” Tristan asked.

“Nah,” Dinadan went in with his bare hands. Tristan laughed – a free thing this time – and followed Dinadan's lead.

“Oh this is perfect,” Dinadan declared with his mouth full, “How's your first bite?”

“Honestly?” Tristan swallowed his food and the worst of his nerves at the same time, “Too caught up in the fact I've been trying to figure out how to ask you out for almost four years now to taste much of the food.”

Dinadan did the math as quickly as he could and realized that, at most, Tristan had been living with them for six months at that point.

“Was that too much?” Tristan asked when Dinadan didn't respond for a few beats of his too-fast heart.

“No,” Dinadan was quick to say, “No, it wasn't just. I don't know when exactly I started feeling _more_ for you.”

Food almost forgotten despite almost all of it being on the table, Tristan grabbed Dinadan's nearest hand with his clean hand.

“That's a relief to hear,” Tristan told him, “Really, it is.”

“It's been a while but it's also been this fear that if I said anything the whole dynamic would shift but not in good ways if it wasn't mutual,” Dinadan said it as if it was a single word, “You know?”

“I know,” Tristan nodded, “I am so glad Palamedes urged me to say something.”

“He did?” Dinadan was genuinely surprised, “Of course he did. When? Where was I?”

“In the bathroom at the buffet,” Tristan said, “So like, two days ago?”

“Oh wow,” Dinadan couldn't stop smiling, “I mean, I've talked with him about the fact I've been hopeful we had something more than friendship going on at length for a while now; I wonder what made him say something.”

“Maybe it's how everything's changing,” Tristan tried not to think about their King at that exact moment, “What better time to take a chance?”

Dinadan laughed, picked up something from the cheese selection he'd ordered, and fed it to Tristan. Tristan took it carefully, trying not to bite down on Dinadan's fingers.

“I'm,” Dinadan hesitated a beat, “I'm asexual. Just. Before we get too far down this road.” Dinadan's hand relaxed reflexively, almost like he expected Tristan to pull away.

Tristan gripped Dinadan's hand a little tighter.

“I will never take something from you not willingly given,” Tristan promised, “or force anything on you, myself included.”

“I don't know why stating it explicitly makes me so nervous,” Dinadan gripped Tristan's hand again, “I mean, it's _you._ ”

Tristan offered Dinadan a small, private smile and Dinadan saw nothing but kindness in Tristan's eyes.

“May I kiss your hand?” Tristan asked. Dinadan nodded and Tristan said, “Can you..I want to **hear** your answer.”

“Yes,” Dinadan told him, “please.”

Tristan guided Dinadan's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

“I've never been _thankful_ for a three-and-a-half-hour meeting before,” Tristan noted.

“I am quite glad you decided not to eat the table as retribution for your lost lunch hour,” Dinadan teased.

“Our first date story is going to be _it started as an alternative to eating office furniture_ ,” Tristan realized.

“That should be the entire story for everyone who isn't Palamedes,” Dinadan decided.

“Yes,” Tristan couldn't help but laugh hard enough he drew some curious eyes. Dinadan's laughter joined his and in that moment all was right with their world.


	23. A Better Brother

Gawain, after much internal debate, did not grab a snack after work to hold him over until after Gareth got off work. It was only two and a half hours, he had reasoned with himself; if he grabbed a snack at five, he might not be hungry enough for _dinner_ by seven-thirty.

He had not considered the time it would take to decide what he wanted to eat and the time food prep would take up, though, so by the time they finally placed their orders, he was ready to eat every vegetarian item on the menu. He settled on something that had a name in a language he didn't understand but the description sounded heavenly.

“I thought you hated mushrooms,” Gareth said after their server left the table.

“I'll eat around them,” Gawain shrugged, “the rest of the dish sounds too good to pass up.”

Gareth tried and failed to hide a snicker. Gawain rolled his eyes and flicked his balled-up straw wrapper at Gareth, who pretended to be horrible offended before flicking it back.

“Oh it's on,” Gawain laughed as he batted the projectile away.

“As long as I still have my job by the end of the meal,” Gareth's eyes narrowed, “consider your challenge met.”

They stared at each other, eyes narrowed and full of a fire that begged to be let loose on the world.

And then Gareth started laughing.

It was a lovely sound, Gawain thought, his youngest brother's mirth untempered by everything he'd been through. Gawain couldn't help but laugh, too. He did his best to let the past week fall away for a moment and delight in the absurdity of a miniature war with a whole two straw wrappers for ammunition.

“How long have you been working here?” Gawain asked, “I know it's been a while, but I've lost track.”

“Uhm,” Gareth looked up at the ceiling as if it had the answers and started counting on his fingers while word-like whispers escaped him, “Two years, seven month. Wow, that's a while.”

“I'm proud of you,” Gawain told him. Gareth looked at Gawain and blinked a few times, eyes wide but blank as if he thought Gawain was teasing him.

“I mean it,” Gawain hoped his earnestness carried over in his words, “That's a long time.”

“Almost three years in the same position,” Gareth said with a heavy exhale, “I've been up for shift supervisor twice now.”

“Really?” Gawain pulled his neck back a little with no conscious thought to the movement, “You didn't say anything about it.”

“Because I knew I wasn't going to get it,” Gareth rested his elbows on the edge of the table and then rested his chin on his balled-up fists, “I'm too young, don't have a degree like the rest of the supes, and I'm _too young_.”

“That's bullshit,” Gawain informed him.

“I am aware, “ Gareth lowered his eyes, “but being bullshit doesn't make it less of a reality.”

Gawain let out a frustrated sigh. There was nothing he could do to help Gareth move up, he knew that – this wasn't Orkney, where Gawain would one day be in charge of the fates of all his brothers. He'd done a shoddy job of it, forsaking his mantle for the thrill of being _not a prince_ at Camelot's court.

He hadn't been doing a good job this life, either. He'd only realized how little he knew about his brothers earlier this week – despite Monday feeling like a lifetime ago – and now here was Gareth, who when Gawain tried to show his pride in his little brother, his little brother only saw what he had not yet accomplished.

“It doesn't,” Gawain agreed, “but you're sticking to it and you're leaving work at work.”

“Home is its own wild ride,” Gareth said with a sad laugh, “I don't mind being on my feet all day and the plates never get _that heavy._ And money isn't an issue, you know, but I still. A promotion has that _rise above my station_ vibe to it and it's always just out of reach.”

“I wish I could help,” Gawain frowned, “I mean, I know, I can't, not with this but just. I want to...do _something_.”

“That means a lot,” Gareth reached across the table and squeezed Gawain's forearm, “Really.”

“Thanks,” Gawain managed a small smile. He felt tears prick the edges of his eyes and wondered if it was just a feeling or if he was really going to have tears in place of an appetizer.

There was a long pause, a silence that seemed to scream so loud the restaurant noise faded out entirely and time seemed to vanish.

“When we get home tonight,” Gareth decided, “we're going to just sit on the couch and cry, okay?”

“We won't even need to try to cook lunch first,” Gawain agreed.

Perhaps, Gawain thought, being a better brother would mean being vulnerable instead of invincible.


	24. Off Balance

Arthur was not sulking.

Panicked to the point he was nearly sick to his stomach, displaced from his own life, and unsure why he'd opted to take a taxi from work to his mother's house, but he wouldn't call hesitating before pressing his own mother's doorbell on a weeknight _sulking_ , thank you very much.

Gorlois opened the door before he managed to make himself ring the doorbell.

“Come in,” Gorlois urged him, “In, in, before your mother finds out I've been keeping you out in the cold.”

“It's not cold yet,” Arthur said as he stepped inside, “How did you know I was here?”

“Oh,” Gorlois chuckled, “I'm expecting a package so I've been looking out from the home office window more than I'd like to admit. Igraine isn't home yet, but she'll be delighted you're here.”

Arthur made a soft _huh_ sound as the front door shut behind him. He toed off his shoes and hung his laptop bag and jacket in their entryway closet.

“Can I get anything started for dinner?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, nah,” Gorlois told him, “I was going put something in the oven in about five minutes – it should be finished preheating by then – so I can put enough in for two instead of three.

Gorlois paused for a moment before he added, “You are staying for dinner, right?”

“I,” Arthur blinked a few times, “Yes, I can stay for dinner, thank you.”

“Whatever's troubling you,” Gorlois told Arthur as he started rummaging through the freezer, “will be easier to talk about over food.”

“Thanks,” Arthur felt like he was mumbling.

He hadn't really planned on what he was going to say once he got there. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, but what he wanted to say and what he felt like he needed to say were so far apart and he hadn't the slightest idea of how to start reconciling that.

Which, he supposed, was why he'd sought out his mother.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Gorlois interrupted his internal monologue, “Igraine should be here in about twenty minutes. Does she know you're here or you want me to tell her?”

“She doesn't know,” Arthur said, “And only if she won't be driving.”

“Guess you'll be surprising her, then,” Gorlois said as he pulled a box of something – Arthur couldn't make out what – out of the freezer, “So, food, I'm thinking gyros with a side of spanakopita.”

“Sounds delicious,” Arthur could feel his mouth watering.

“And easy,” Gorlois put the box on the counter and shifted his focus to the fridge, “The spanakopita doesn't take long to cook at all. The gyro meat just needs to be heated. I like fresh sliced onion and tomato over the pre-sliced trays you can get, but we have a mandolin for that. Feta's already crumbled. Pita comes six or eight to a bag. Really can't complain about having to do a little heating and slicing.”

“Do you ever remember what it felt like waiting for the lone winter hare to cook?” Arthur asked.

“All the time and I hated it,” Gorlois shook his head, “Worse, if it had to be shared among so many men it was like having a cup of tepid water with a meat chunk in it for supper.”

“We were lucky we had Kay,” Arthur said with a laugh, “Even through the worst of it, he knew how to make whatever was cooking at least smell so good you forgot it was tepid water with a meat chunk to keep you from starving.”

“He was sir Ector's boy, right?” Gorlois asked.

“You knew Sir Ector?” Arthur sat up straight and stared at Gorlois.

“I knew _of_ Sir Ector,” Gorlois told him, “Your mother – she's told me little bits and pieces about what happened after I died. Sir Ector and his son are the two I know most about, besides you.”

“Makes sense,” Arthur nodded, “Sir Ector, he raised me like he was his own son. I never met Kay's mother, though, and neither of them would answer questions about her.”

“The war that we were fighting,” Gorlois sighed and stopped rummaging through the fridge to turn to Arthur, “It was _bad._ The lands were struggling to produce enough food for everyone and families had to choose who lived and who died. King – like me – were fighting to keep other kings' people off our land so we did not have to tell or own people they would have to starve faster. Even in noble houses, the losses...” Gorlois broke off, “It was horrific, and worse yet to know there are still wars like it being waged through weapons that don't give people a chance to fight back.”

“I,” Arthur faltered, “I had no idea.”

“That's good, then,” Gorlois went back to rummaging through the fridge, “It means that by the time you could remember things, they'd figured out a way to balance the needs of the people with what the land could provide.”

Arthur did not want to think too much on what it took for the balance to be struck.

“But, this Kay,” Gorlois circled back, “A good cook, then?”

“Better than I could ever be,” Arthur said with a small laugh, “He ran, well, he ran everything. When we were boys, sure, but also at Camelot.”

“The Seneschal makes the kingdom,” Gorlois said as he took half an onion and a whole tomato out of the fridge and let the door shut on its own, “Was he a good one?”

“He was an excellent one,” Arthur couldn't help but grin, “Most of even my Knights were terrified of him, but he was damned good at his work. He knew our stores down to the number of unground wheat bits, I'm sure of it.”

“I'm glad,” Gorlois sounded like he meant it, “If – when – when it's time, Arthur, I hope he is everything you remember him to be.”

“Oh, he is,” Arthur was pretty sure a small laugh escaped right before he noticed the sound of a tomato hitting the tile floor.

“Is?” Gorlois clarified and cleared his throat.

“That's why -” Arthur thought to explain everything in as many words as possible, but then changed his mind, “My court found me on Monday.”

“Well,” Gorlois picked up the fallen tomato and examined its new squishy side, “I can see why that would trouble you.”

“I feel like it shouldn't though,” Arthur huffed, “I've spent my entire life hoping they were out there and feeling like an entire part of me was _missing_ and now I know they've been less than hour away for _years_ and I could just show up and stay and they'd welcome me back the second time like they did the first time and yet I just,” Arthur took a deep breath, “I just went back to work on Wednesday like it was any other day and yesterday felt all wrong and today felt even worse and I just don't know what to do or how to do things any more.”

Gorlois made a soft sound that was somewhere between a forceful exhale and worry.

“If you've spent this much of your life feeling like a part of you was missing,” Gorlois put the tomato on the counter so he could put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, “finding it is going to throw you off balance in ways you couldn't have possibly prepared yourself for.”

Arthur felt his shoulders sag before he noticed they'd moved without him.

“It's all so much,” Arthur said quietly.

“I cannot imagine what it feels like,” Gorlois squeezed his shoulder, “nor can I imagine what it's doing to you. But I have faith you'll figure out a way to be alright.”

“Really?” The single-word question escaped Arthur before he realized he needed the assurance.

“Really,” Gorlois released his shoulder, “You are your mother's child, first and foremost. Now, come on, I could actually use your help getting the onion and tomato sliced.”

“Sure,” Arthur managed a smile, “Point me towards the mandolin.”

Perhaps, Arthur thought to himself, this was where the answers he wanted lay. Not in talk, not in slogging through moral and other esoteric quandaries about why here, why now, but in action and building connections with others like they were new rather than pasted over who they used to be.

Perhaps he was wrong, but there was only one way to find out.

By doing.


	25. Recounting Plans

As soon as they were back at the motel, Bedivere let himself flop face-first onto one of the beds without taking his shoes off – or even checking to see if it was his – first. 

“Seconded,” Agrivane mumbled as he did the same on the other bed, “What. What even _happened_ at the – at the food place.”

“Besides the genuine shock that nothing at that price point came with gold leaf sprinkled on it,” Bedivere's voice was muffled by the bed and he hadn't turned his head yet, “I think Lamorak's coming back after this show.”

“I got that much,” Agrivane said as he rolled onto his side, “But like. We didn't – there was no talk about _that_ at all.”

“There didn't need to be,” Bedivere turned his head in Agrivane's general direction.

“What do you mean?” Agrivane was already frustrated with the conversation, “This – this whole thing is a big deal! There should have been _a conversation_ about it!”

“The conversation happened in the RV,” Bedivere said as he started to try to kick his shoes off, “The dinner was more of a, oh, give me a moment, I'm looking for the right words...”

“I didn't like it,” Agrivane huffed, “I didn't like it at all.”

“I think Lamorak was trying to see who we are as people,” Bedivere sighed, “By removing any talk of Camelot, of Arthur's return, of this uncertain and terrifying future, he got to see who we are as individuals.”

“But we're only two people,” Agrivane pointed out, “He can't possibly know what it's going to be like longer term by having an incredibly uncomfortable dinner with just us.”

“No,” Bedivere agreed, “he can't. But he can start to gauge the two of us, and really, if you're trying to case this new Camelot with just two people, I can see where we'd be good choices.”

“I'm a horrible choice,” Agrivane rolled onto his back.

“You're Agrivane,” Bedivere sighed, “No matter what's happened – this life or last – at your core you're the second-born son of a very powerful family who is directly tied to Camelot.”

“Don't remind me,” Agrivane snapped and got back up to his feet, “And I'm not. I'm not a second-born anymore and I'm from a shitty family who'd rather I disappear than call them to tell them I'm still alive.”

“Family is a choice,” Bedivere snapped back, “Blood may start the ties but it doesn't finish them.”

Agrivane froze. He wasn't sure why he'd gotten up – he was getting angry and needed to do _something_ before his anger took over – but there was something in Bedivere's tone that rooted him to the spot.

“So am I a second-born of a powerful family or is family a choice I get to make?” Agrivane snapped, “Because those two things seem pretty mutually exclusive.”

“You're,” Bedivere let out a sound of frustration, “The magic at the core of your family – at the core of the Pendragon family – is tied to your very soul. Nothing, not death not choice not sin, can take that from you. You can't escape that,” Bedivere's words were less harsh but there was still an edge to them, “Nobody can. We can escape who we've been or what we've done. We can't outrun or outsmart the universe. But we're still people besides all that bullshit, and we still matter.”

“So if we can't escape it why does it matter who we are in an hour of idle chit-chat?” Agrivane was still snapping.

“Because who we are outside the things we cannot escape speaks for our character,” Bedivere sat up slowly, limbs awkward and bed not at all soft or pliable, “And it is people, not the shoulds and the forces of fate, that make up a court. Even a court as strange as Camelot.”

“And he can tell that from a conversation?” Agrivane demanded, “From one conversation?”

“He saw enough to feel that he was safe returning,” Bedivere pinched the bridge of his nose, “and honestly, good, because Excalibur is still in his RV and if I grab it again it might happen again and I don't think I'd be in much shape to drive back home if...if that happened again.”

“...can I ask?” Agrivane felt the first drain from him as he remembered how _violently_ Bedivere reacted to grabbing the sword.

“All my memories of my first life came back in an instant,” Bedivere closed his eyes, “ **All of them.** ”

“And yet,” Agrivane closed his eyes, paused, and took a handful of audible breaths before he opened his eyes and continued, “And yet you handled dinner perfectly -”

“There was no other option,” Bedivere interrupted.

“- while I sat there and stammered like an idiot,” Agrivane finished.

“You picked Excalibur like it was nothing,” Bedivere's eyes looked like there was a fire behind them.

A literal fire, Agrivane noted, alive with sparks and flame, not a proverbial fire. Magic, probably, the very thing whose _lack_ had allowed Agrivane to do the thing that Bedivere had pointed out.

“It was nothing,” Agrivane looked away, “I mean, literally. It's just a sword to me.”

“How?” Bedivere did nothing to hide his shock.

“I've never had magic,” Agrivane realized he would likely always be bitter about this fact, “Still don't.”

“That's...” Bedivere started to say.

“If you say impossible I am leaving you here,” Agrivane warned. In that moment, it really felt like he would, too. He would likely turn around almost immediately as guilt tried to eat him from the inside, but he managed not to voice that part.

Bedivere dig the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them next to Agrivane.

Agrivane batted them off the bed and onto the floor before he realized what he'd done.

“I-” Agrivane started to say, but he laughed instead. He'd expected Bedivere to be angry that he was laughing, or at least to be judging him, but instead he could hear Bedivere laughing, too.

Bedivere tossed his wallet in nearly the exact same spot he'd tossed his keys, and Agrivane hit it on purpose this time, and harder. It bounced off the edge of Bedivere's bed before it, too, hit the floor.

“Goddamn it where is my,” Bedivere said through his laughter, “Oh!” He tossed another object.

Agrivane batted Bedivere's phone away before he realized what it was. He'd hit it as hard as he'd hit the wallet, but it was lighter and his angle was off so it hit the bed frame with a cracking sound before it, too, fell to the floor.

“Oh god your phone,” Agrivane's laughter died as he covered his mouth with his hands.

“I deserved that,” Bedivere was still laughing. Agrivane sighed in relief and went to pick up the fallen objects. “I'll get them in a minute,” Bedivere told him. Bedivere was clearly trying to reign in his laughter, but he was not having much success.

“I don't know why it was so funny,” Agrivane felt like he might start laughing again.

“Absurdist humor,” Bedivere said as if that explained everything, “I think I needed the laugh, really.”

“Same,” Agrivane realized, “And, thanks.”

“You're welcome?” Bedivere tilted his head to the side.

“It's just,” Agrivane felt like explaining was only going to kill the slightly better mood the laughing fit had put them in, “This whole trip, you haven't babied me or treated me like I'm different or...anything.”

“Was I supposed to?” Bedivere asked. 

It was probably a rhetorical question, but Agrivane answered anyways: “I don't know, but it's what I'm used to.”

“That's a shame,” Bedivere's words were clipped, “that that's how you're used to being treated, I mean.”

“I _am_ > different, though,” Agrivane wished he could stop talking, “And don't tell me everyone's different. They're not different. Not like this.”

Bedivere blinked a few times. When he didn't say anything, Agrivane took it upon himself to keep the silence from settling in.

“I'm the type of different that makes everyone's life harder,” Agrivane wished the silence had won out, “That unwelcome type of different that everyone stares at _on a good day_. I hate being different and everything I've ever tried to make myself normal has blown up in my face.”

Bedivere's face seemed to soften and Agrivane couldn't take the pity.

“Don't,” it came out as more of a plea than a warning, “Just. Just don't, Bedivere.”

“Different roots,” Bedivere's voice was tight and Agrivane couldn't understand why, “similar end effect.”

“You?” Agrivane said with a bitter laugh, “You're the opposite of me.”

“If you told me twenty years ago I'd be living with a dozen people and not hiding in my room all day, I would have skipped the yelling and went right to throwing things,” Bedivere told him, “Fifteen years ago and there might have been some yelling first.”

“I can't see it,” Agrivane said plainly.

“It's been a lot of work,” Bedivere sounded like he was confessing something, “A _lot_ of work.”

“You did _college_!” Agrivane realized.

“In three years,” Bedivere's words were heavy, “because it kept me so busy I was _too exhausted_ to lash out.”

It made sense, Agrivane supposed, if Bedivere's lashing out was driven by excess energy and not fear. He was too tired to continue this conversation, though, and really didn't want to reveal more about himself than he already had. Sure, Bedivere hasn't given him any reason that Agrivane thought meant he shouldn't be trusted, but that still didn't mean Agrivane trusted Bedivere.

“Can we try to go to bed?” Agrivane asked, “Or just turn on the TV and pretend the conversation came to a more natural end.”

“Yeah,” Bedivere shrugged and grabbed the remote and didn't say anything else.

And, really, if there was nothing else in this entire trip Agrivane would see as a reason to be thankful for anything, it was that response.


	26. Liminal Hours

Gareth hadn't been expecting to be up this late.

When he and Gawain got home, the couch they'd promised each other they'd cry on was already occupied – by Kay and Lancelot. Of all the people in the house, it would figure two of the three who are in the living room the least would be, well, there. And he certainly hadn't expected to see them cuddling. It was a platonic cuddle, Gareth knew – you could always tell a platonic cuddle from an intimate one by the ways everyone held themselves and they were both all rigid angles and tense shoulders. There was a comfort they were seeking and while it was clear to Gareth that both Lancelot and Kay knew they weren't going to find it in each other, it was also they needed to try for the sake of their own mental health.

For reasons Gareth didn't entirely understand, instead of going back to their room where they knew Mordred and Gaheris had to be by now, he and Gawain stayed in the living room and had an incredibly awkward conversation about absolutely nothing until Lancelot declared it was time for him to get to bed.

And, just as he'd done every night for years throughout his first life, Gareth watched him leave without a word.

When Kay looked between Gareth and Gawain and asked if they were up for best five out of seven on Rainbow Road, Gareth and Gawain had both agreed so quickly it was more of a reflex than a voluntary agreement.

Kay had lost every round, but it seemed the former Seneschal was more interested in getting the two of them out of their own heads for a bit rather than being competitive. The cat – whose name had slipped Gareth's mind entirely – seemed to enjoy the fact that they were all three making periodic loud noises and heckling the hell out of each other, because he went from dozing on the otherwise empty love seat to pacing between them and periodically headbutting someone's side.

And so, when the games had been over for hours and everyone else seemed to be in bed and sleep just wouldn't happen for him, Gareth snuck back out into the living room to turn the Switch back on and play a few more rounds. He would, if nothing else, get some practice in and maybe beat Gawain next time.

Sixteen woke up when he turned the light on with a little almost-purring sound and Gareth had smiled for what felt like the first time in days. There was a simplicity in being a cat – even a cat that needed to be medicated as often as this one apparently did. Which, not that he'd done much with the cat at all nevertheless medicated the feline so he didn't _really_ know how horrible the medication experiences were, but he wasn't going to let that particular truth affect his ideal version of this cat's life.

Instead of firing up the Switch, he grabbed one of his shoes, unlaced it, and swished it in the cat's general direction.

The cat's eyes went wide and it lunged – Gareth side stepped with a surprised sound that he knew was too loud for the hour. He swished the string again and it had the same effect, but he was ready for the lunge this time and took half a step to the side – then another and another while the cat gave chase, lunging and batting but never quite catching the shoelace.

Gareth wasn't sure how long they were at it when Mordred joined them. Gareth stopped, surprised, and the cat yanked the shoelace right out of his hand and bounced out of reach.

“Having fun?” Mordred asked with a quiet laugh.

“Actually, yeah,” Gareth realized, “Did we wake you?”

“From the other side of the house?” Mordred raised his eyebrows, “But no, you didn't. It's my turn to give him his too-fucking-early medication.”

“What's his too-fucking-early-medication?” Gareth asked.

“Uh,” Mordred was already in the kitchen, “something that's liquid which is infinitely less fun to give than pills.”

“Oh no,” Gareth did not envy Mordred in this situation, “How'd you get stuck with it?”

“Percy and I decided to take turns,” Mordred explained as he loaded a syringe-style dropper with a clear liquid, “I mean, it was my idea, but you know.”

“He didn't ask?” Gareth looked between his brother and the cat, “Also, what's it name again?”

“His name is sixteen,” Mordred reminded him, “And no, but I don't think Perc has asked for a thing in his life.”

“It was weird,” Gareth felt any happiness he'd gained from watching Sixteen chase string leaving way faster than he'd been able to gather it, “I was much closer to his age than yours.”

“I forget sometimes just how large the gap was between you and the rest of us,” Mordred frowned, “and I try not to think too hard on it.”

“I think I was born maybe a year after Gawain went to Camelot?” Gareth tried to remember what he'd been told, “Maybe two?”

“Two or three?” Mordred couldn't quite remember either, “Gawain went to court when he was fifteen and he was five years older than me, so I would have been ten because Gaheris was eight and was to be his page. You were two when I went to court, but no, wait, I was thirteen when I went to court, soooo,” Mordred paused to do the math, “Eleven years between us and five between me and Gawain that's sixteen years so, yeah, wow, a year after.”

“That was far too many numbers too fast for me to keep up,” Gareth shook his head, “But wow, yeah, I would have been born the same year Agrivane left for Camelot.”

“And I didn't come home for a long, long time after I'd left,” Mordred grabbed the cat with one arm, placed him on the arm of the couch, and everything else happened so fast Gareth missed almost all of it but the cat was medicated and Mordred wasn't bleeding from anywhere, “How old were you, when you went to Camelot?”

“Sixteen,” Gareth sighed, “Mom did _not_ want me leaving, and she _extra did not_ want me leaving for Camelot.”

“I can't say I blame her,” Mordred admitted, “I mean, you were there, at the end of it all.”

“I try not to think too much on it,” Gareth wished he had the shoestring to fiddle with, “I remember there was a lot of blood. Just. So much blood. I think a lot of it was mine, but really, I just...”

“I feel so guilty about all of it,” Mordred was in the kitchen again, this time to throw away the dropper and wash his hands, “I did what I thought was right but it went so wrong and -” Mordred was caught off-guard by his own sob. Gareth was there in a heartbeat, hugging his brother in the narrow galley kitchen, “You always were the best of us.”

“Eh,” Gareth shrugged, “Given another fifteen years who's to say what would have happened.”

“You should have _had_ those years, though!” Mordred argued.

“And how is it your fault?” Garth asked, “I died protecting my queen.”

“Which means you weren't there for the after,” Mordred sat down on the floor, “The after, where I raised an army against my father and marched on his already-worn troops. It was a slaughter on both sides.”

“Christ,” Gareth hadn't heard it from Mordred before. He sat down across from Mordred and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized this was the second brother he'd be seeing through some sort of breakdown on the kitchen floor this week, “Camlann.”

“Nothing like the stories tell it,” Mordred huffed.

“The stories also say Arthur turned on Guinevere and Guinevere and Lancelot were having an affair,” Gareth rolled his eyes.

“Were they?” Mordred asked as he scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Oh, no,” Gareth couldn't help the laugh that escaped, “Trust me, I would have heard.”

“How would you – oh my god, you would have heard,” Mordred realized.

Sixteen came padding into the kitchen to see what they were up to, wove between Gareth and the fridge, hopped on Mordred's lap, and batted at Mordred's face gently.

“What's he doing?” Gareth asked.

“Either hitting me in the face or trying to dry my tears,” Mordred let Sixteen continue.

“I'm afraid the only way to find out is by crying more,” Gareth pursed his lips.

“Not the worst option,” Mordred shrugged, “I can't say I want to talk about this, though.”

“I'm sorry,” Gareth hung his head.

“Not your fault,” Mordred tried to assure him.

“Ehhhh,” Gareth started to say something, but Mordred cut him off.

“It eats at me whether or not I'm talking about it,” Mordred informed him, “It just gets forced into sharper focus when I'm talking about it.”

“You've talked about it before?” Gareth asked.

“To a house plant when I was seventeen, barricaded in my room, and very drunk,” Mordred confessed, “I'd just started _remembering things_ and wasn't handling it very well.”

“Ah, yikes,” Gareth grimaced, “I was a bit older but I still didn't take it very well.”

“You're, what, twenty-three now?” Mordred realized he couldn't quite remember.

“Twenty-three in, like, a month,” Gareth told him, “but I've probably said I'm twenty-three a few times already.”

“Well, we're much closer in age this time,” Mordred started petting Sixteen, “I feel so young compared to most of the rest of the house.”

“I mean, yeah, same,” Gareth realized he might be the youngest in the house; he'd have to find a way to ask Percival his age without that being the entire conversation.

“I'm hoping whatever we're all gathering for,” Mordred knew he was only saying this because it was late and something about the liminal hours of the not-morning-yet-not-night demanded truth as the price for their company, “I'm hoping it's nothing like last time. I don't want to be someone the fate of the world hinges on. I just want to be Mordred.”

Sixteen picked that moment to flop in Mordred's lap and curl up into a ball.

“I hope the first time was the big one,” Gareth whispered, “and this one's our free pass for doing our best even if it turned out all kinda of weird.”

“Me too,” Mordred whispered, “Me too.”


	27. To The Breakdown

Bors couldn't remember the last time he'd called out of work when he wasn't so sick Kay and Bedivere were threatening to take him to the hospital, so when he called ten minutes before he normally left for the day to say he wouldn't be coming in, the secretary was too quick to assure him it was fine and she'd pass along the memo.

She was only too quick because his boss called him not five minutes later to ask if he was alright. Bors assured him that, yes, he was alright; he just had some family matters to attend and he'd be back in the office on Monday. 

“Take all the time you need,” his boss had assured him. Bors was fairly sure that was only said because his boss was afraid if he _hadn't_ told Bors to take all the time he needed, Bors would have rethought coming back the next workday, even if it was a ridiculous fear. Bors loved his job. He'd been doing the same job for over twenty years now and saw himself retiring with the same job. 

But today? Today _Percival's boss_ had called Percival asking him not to bring the cat into work. Was there anyone at home who could medicate the cat? 

Percival had answered the call and immediately put it on speaker while he finished getting dressed, so Bors nodded and Percival told his boss that, yes, there was someone who could take care of Sixteen, and that was that.

“Weird,” was all Percival had said when the phone call ended. Bors had heard something in Percival's boss' tone, though, something that told him the fault was with the clinic and not the cat.

Percival ran Bors through all the medications and their dosages and where the bag of clean syringes was in the span of maybe a minute before he ran out the door without his lunch, leaving the fridge door wide open. Gaheris, with one of Kay's breakfast sandwiches in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, watched the entire thing with a bewildered look trapped between Kay and Bedivere's door and Bors. Mordred was in the kitchen, a blur with a hint of panic, but Bors managed to hand Mordred his lunch bag as well as Percival's and Gaheris managed to put his coffee down and shove two breakfast sandwiches at Mordred before Mordred, too, was out the door.

“Wow,” Gaheris said.

“I think it's his coffee replacement,” Bors shrugged, “Are there any with sausage left?”

“One,” Gaheris looked over the tray, “looks like it's got a white cheese?”

“Provolone,” Bors knew Provolone had been the only white cheese in the fridge in the past two weeks, “Mind handing it to me?”

“Uh, sure,” Gaheris picked it up and handed it to Bors and then picked up his coffee mug as if to say _I am done handing things to people._

“Thank you,” Bors hadn't forgotten his manners entirely, “We have a coffee pot?”

“Cold brew concentrate,” Gaheris informed him, “Top shelf, towards the back, think it might have a cup or two worth left.”

“Ah,” Bors shut the fridge, “I would hate to use the last of your coffee.”

“It's Gawain's,” Gaheris shrugged, “I mean, he said to help myself, but yeah.”

“Ah,” Bors said again, unsure of what else to say.

“We probably have a coffee pot somewhere,” Gaheris kept talking, “I mean, if you're up early enough it _smells like coffee_ , but I've never seen a coffee pot. Here, I mean. I've never seen a coffee pot in this house.”

“I kind of assumed you'd seen a coffee pot at some point in your life,” Bors bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Gaheris made a sound like he might choke on his own embarrassment, so Bors stepped out of the kitchen, giving Gaheris an escape route that wasn't _through someone else's bedroom and then out the window._

Gaheris took the new exit path to quickly he almost spilled his coffee. 

Gawain entered the living room just in time to watch his second-youngest brother leave without shoes.

“What was that about?” Gawain looked at Bors as if he was ready to accuse the only Knight who'd seen the Grail and lived to tell the tale of _something._

“Apparently he's never seen a coffee pot,” Bors shrugged, “Which lunch box is yours?”

“How?” Gawain's face was the type of blank that only happened when there were too many ways someone wanted to respond so nothing at all got expressed, “We've been to Denny's together and he _ordered_ coffee! They come around with that little coffee pot and everything!”

“Ask him,” Bors stepped back into the kitchen, “Do you have a lunchbox ready to go or do you pack the morning of? I'm normally not here this late.”

“Oh, I pack, but I've actually got the next week and a half off,” Gawain almost looked guilty, “As soon as I got to work on Tuesday I put in for the vacation and it got approved early this morning. Which, glad I checked my work email before I started getting ready for work. I'm actually out here to medicate the cat.”

“His next dose isn't for another half-hour,” Bors checked his watch, “And you're going to medicate the cat? I'm going to medicate the cat.”

“Is that why you're still here?” Gawain asked, “I mean, not at work. You're still here because you're not dead. Er...”

“Does it run in the family?” Bors couldn't help himself, “Wait, how did you know Percy and Mordred didn't take Sixteen with them?”

“Mordred called me with a frantic _Boss asked Perc to leave the cat at home can you medicate it?_ and then hung up,” Gawain explained, “And so, here I am. I figure I can read the bottles and go from there.”

“Huh,” Bors knew the sound was going to escape whether or not he tried to stop it, so he took the path of least resistance and let it happen as he backed back up into the kitchen, “Well, I've called off on account of a family emergency so if I come in they might _make me_ take a week and a half off -”

Bors was cut off by Gawain's phone ringing.

“Mo,” Gawain glanced at his phone, “Ten bucks says he's about to tell me Percival already asked you to take care of the cat.”

“Technically he didn't ask,” Bors replied, “Put him on speaker, I want to hear this.”

“Your second-favorite brother,” Gawain said as he accepted the call and put it on speaker.

Bors narrowed his eyes.

“Percival says Bors is taking care of the cat,” Mordred sounded panicked but also apologetic, “So uh. I guess work it out with Bors?”

“Will do,” Gawain sounded not terribly far away from laughing at Mordred, “You have fun and try not to get bit.”

“If I get bit I'm blaming you for tempting fate,” Mordred said just before he hung up.

“Who's his favorite brother?” Bors asked.

“Probably Gareth,” Gawain said with a shrug, “Everybody likes Gareth more than the rest of us put together.”

Bors wanted to argue for the sake of Gawain's self-esteem, but he also didn't believe in lying.

“I can medicate the cat,” Bors offered, “if you want to take your entire vacation as a vacation.”

“I'm taking the time off because I'm going to have a breakdown if I don't. I don't see how you're so calm about all this,” Gawain informed him, “Also, _family emergency?_ Your work doesn't follow up on those?”

“I adopted Percival,” Bors told Gawain, “As an adult, but, you know. Still an adoption.”

“I didn't,” Gawain's jaw hung loose, “You can do that?”

“It's actually easier than adopting a child,” Bors wasn't sure why he was telling Gawain – or anybody else, really – all of this.

“Huh,” was all Gawain had to say to that.

“But really, I don't mind medicating the cat,” Bors returned the conversation back to its initial purpose.

“I cannot have nothing to do now that I have something to do,” Gawain seemed genuinely anxious, “I can medicate the cat.”

“Wait a second,” Bors' eyes went wide, “Can you imagine if we hadn't known we were both medicating the cat.”

“Oh no,” Gawain seemed to have the same realization, “We might have medicated him twice.”

“Percival does not work weekends and the clinic isn't even open on Sundays,” Bors was realizing this cat was likely a permanent house guest, “and this is not a household known for its communication skills.”

“I can't even argue with that accusation,” Gawain grimaced, “What do we do?”

“Well,” Bors looked between the closed fridge and Gawain, “one of us medicates the cat at nine, and then we make a chart.”

“A chart?” Gawain asked, “Oh, a _Has the cat been medicated?_ chart, gotchya.”

“Well,” Bors looked between the closed fridge and Gawain, “one of us medicates the cat at nine, and then we make a chart.”

“A chart?” Gawain asked, “Oh, a _Has the cat been medicated?_ chart, gotchya.”

“Well, for the chart we probably want to put his name on it,” Bors said mildly, “but yes.”

“I'm not terrible at charts,” Gawain was offering to make the whole thing.

“Percival gave me a rundown before he ran out the door,” Bors told Gawain, “Apparently some of the bottles have abbreviations that don't make sense unless you know them.”

“Seems weird to give a non-vet family,” Gawain noted.

“Pretty sure the vet gave these to Perc,” Bors told him.

“Did the family just not bring the meds with the cat?” Gawain made a mental note to punch the head of the family should he ever meet them.

“I didn't ask,” Bors opened the fridge, “Anyways, his eight-thirty needs to sit for ten minutes to not be fridge temp.”

“...maybe you should medicate the cat,” Gawain would have given the cat his meds right out of the fridge.

“I think it's just a comfort thing,” Bors said as he took a clean dropper from the bag and filled it to where Percival had told him to, “not an effectiveness thing.”

“Still,” Gawain frowned.

“He likes you,” Bors said, “Or at least, he didn't claw you like expected.”

“And then he just walked over to you and flopped in your lap,” Gawain remembered the frozen moment between releasing the cat and realizing he was going to keep all his skin intact and blood in his body like it belonged.

“Maybe he'll be more docile if we medicate him together,” Bors theorized.

“Worth a shot,” Gawain shrugged, “You have cats before?”

“No,” Bors shook his head, “Well, I've been _around_ a lot of cats, but none of them have ever been mine.”

“I had cats before I moved here,” Gawain said as he went to pick up the cat, who'd been sleeping on the coffee table through everything, “Well, my mom had cats, but you know how it goes. You get old enough to do stuff around the house and all the sudden the bulk of keeping the house clean falls on your shoulders.”

Bors managed to stop himself from saying that, no, he didn't know how that went and a child wasn't meant to be free labor.

Gawain held Sixteen so that the cat was over his shoulder, looking the opposite direction. Even from half-way across the room, Bors could hear Sixteen purring away.

“Should be up to temperature,” Bors said as he picked up the dropper and filled it to the appropriate line, “Do you want to hold him like that, or do you want to get him more secure?”

“Let's do it on the floor, it'll be easier that way,” Gawain suggested. Bors failed to suppress a snort of a laugh. “Oh my god,” Gawain was slack-jawed again, “Oh my god,” he repeated like it would help.

“Floor it is,” Bors words were mostly laughter, “Oh poor Sixteen probably thinks we're laughing at him.”

“I don't think he knows what's coming,” Gawain noted, “Like, if he can't see the syringe, it's not medication o'clock.”

“Huh,” Bors realized Gawain was right; Sixteen was still relaxed and purring away even though Gawain's hold on the cat was such that he could secure the animal to the floor in an instant.

Bors walked up to them slowly, syringe out of sight and footsteps heavy so he didn't take Sixteen entirely by surprise.

He knelt down, gave Sixteen a few pats, and then Gawain secured the cat while Bors stuck one finger in Sixteen's mouth to hold it open while he squirted the medication down the cat's throat. Bors stepped back immediately after he was done and Gawain let go almost immediately after, but stayed next to the cat.

“See?” Gawain was talking to the cat, “That's not so horrible!”

Sixteen licked his lips several times, the movements accompanied by a series of smacking sounds. He recoiled into himself, but did not run away or sulk off. Gawain started petting the cat and making soft noised that Bors could not make out.

It was endearing.

Bors went back to the kitchen to rinse the dropper out before throwing it away.

“I do not want any leftover to make it into the trash so he smells medication in the kitchen,” Bors said even though Gawain hadn't asked.

“I'm not sure he can smell well,” Gawain was still fussing over the cat.

“Only one way to tell,” Bors realized he was about to list several ways, “I have no idea what treats he's allowed.”

“I hope he's allowed treats,”” Gawain said as he finally stood up, “Poor thing has no treats, no bed, no toys.”

“Are you having the same idea I'm having?” Bors asked.

“If you're thinking about going to the nearest pet store, yes,” Gawain nodded.

“Chart first,” Bors said, “but yes, after we make the chart, pet store.”

“What are you thinking the chart should look like?” Gawain asked, “I'm thinking spreadsheet.”

“Spreadsheet sounds perfect,” Bors agreed, “Medication name, dosage, and delivery method across, time down?”

“I'm not seeing it,” Gawain admitted, “Close, but all you mentioned _down_ and the day of the week across.”

“Okay, I like that better,” Bors threw his idea out and hoped it stayed in the mental trash.

“So here's what I'm thinking,” Gawain was already side-stepping towards his room, “We make the spreadsheet and then get it laminated so we can reuse it.”

“Works for me,” Bors shrugged, “Excel or Photoshop or some other equivalent software?”

“I've only got Excel,” Gawain said, “Do you have Photoshop?”

“No,” Bors shook his head, “I've never been artistically inclined.”

“Me neither,” Gawain took a few more half-steps towards his room, “Hold up just a sec and let me grab my laptop.”

Before Bors could say anything, Gawain disappeared down the hall. He was back almost as quickly as he disappeared.

“How do we want to do this?” Gawain asked a she emerged with his laptop.

“I can read off the medications and their information, you type them in?” Bors suggested. Gawain nodded and Bors went to the fridge to begin the process.

It took near half an hour for the entire process to be completed, and then Gawain and Bors switched roles to make sure Bors had read everything correctly _and_ Gawain had typed everything in correctly.

“Next dose is at noon, and the one after that's at four,” Bors read off the sheet, “It's almost ten. Do we want to save it as a PDF and leave now, or do we want to wait until after noon?”

“Save as a PDF and laminate now, come back, medicate the cat, feed ourselves, then go to the pet store,” Gawain decided, “Or several pet stores depending on how much time we have.”

“Works for me,” Bors agreed, “Do you need a thumb drive?”

“Is it an over-forty thing?” Gawain asked, “Thumb drive versus flash drive?”

“Maybe?” Bors tilted his head to the side a little, “So, did you need one?”

“If you have one on hand,” Gawain told him, “Otherwise I know I have several _somewhere._ I'd just need to dig them out.”

“I have one,” Bors disappeared back into his room and reappeared with a translucent red flash drive, the store's name a decal that looked to be made at the lowest possible cost, “It's empty.”

“Sweet,” Gawain grabbed the flash drive from Bors, “Okay, give me a few seconds and,” Gawain drew the word out as he clicked around, “We're good!”

“Do you have a car?” Bors asked, “I have no idea whose vehicle is whose besides my car and my bike.”

“You have a car?” Gawain asked.

“It's the one Percy drives,” Bors told Gawain, “His was DOA when he first came here and except for inclement weather I only ever turned the engine over on Saturdays.”

“What do you do in inclement weather now?” Gawain asked, “And yeah, I do but it's not driven much outside errands and to the Metro station.”

“I call a rideshare,” Bors answered, “Whichever is cheaper when I need it. And I guess it doesn't really matter which we take to Staples but we'll need to take your car to the pet store.”

“We can take my car to Staples,” Gawain said as he unplugged the flash drive and shut his laptop, “I don't have any safety gear and I'm something like five inches shorter than you so even if you had a second set I'd be drowning in it.”

“I appreciate that,” Bors said, “the safety thing.”

“Car's a little messy,” Gawain warned as he got his shoes on, “Be a good cat.”

“Don't destroy the curtains,” Bors said to Sixteen as he slipped his shoes on and followed Gawain out the door, “I'll lock up.”

“Thanks,” Gawain acknowledged, “Also, I have no idea how loud the music is.”

“That's fine,” Bors said as the bolt lock clicked into place.

“You are full of surprises,” Gawain noted.

“I should be full of breakfast,” Bors realized he had yet to actually eat anything.

“McDonalds drive through?” Gawain suggested.

“Sure,” Bors thought he might be at risk of eating the bag if there was enough hash brown grease on in.

Bors was _not_ hungry enough to eat the bag – or maybe he had more self-control than he thought because goddamn was there a lot of grease on it – and the food was gone before they got to Staples.

“Did you chew?” Gawain asked as he put his car in park, “I am legitimately asking because we only crossed the parking lot.”

“I think so?” Bors wasn't sure, “I suppose we could have walked.”

“Could have,” Gawain shrugged, “but it's so much nicer in something with heat. Plus she's a hybrid so I don't feel nearly as bad about it.”

“Environmental reservations?” Bors asked.

“About everything,” Gawain said with a small huff, “and what's worse is I can't tell if a genuine care or an attempt to...” he trailed off.

Bors considered his next words carefully, letting some silence settle in before he told Gawain: “I think either way, there's a care there that social norms and pressure has not corroded.”

“Thanks,” Gawain said with a small smile, “Let's go get this sheet printed.”

Inside, there was a wait. Not a line, not exactly, but rather a series of disgruntled customers. Bors couldn't tell if the customers were unreasonable of the printer technicians were not well trained at their jobs – it seemed like it might be both.

“We're going to need dry erase markers,” Bors realized, “and magnets.”

“I can go find them?” Gawain had been shifting from one foot to the other since they'd started standing at the counter.

“Please,” Bors was nowhere near as antsy.

Gawain disappeared into the rest of the store and Bors was left waiting at the counter.

When it was finally Bors' turn, the laminating machine jammed.

Gawain returned with a basket full of items.

“I realized our fridge it bare,” Gawain said as he help up the basket, “so I figured we can do something about that.”

“Good idea,” Bors peered into the basket, “Machine's jammed.”

“Oh no,” Gawain frowned, “Which one?”

“Laminator,” Bors tole him, “Hopefully second time's a charm, but they're going to need to re-print it.”

“You're think between the lot of us _someone_ would have a printer,” Gawain tapped his fingers on the counter, “I'm going to pay for everything and meet you back here. Did you want a chocolate or a soda or anything?”

“Surprise me,” Bors did want a chocolate, but did not want to make Gawain pay for him.

Gawain was gone again, this time off to the registers. Bors watched long enough to see Gawain begin to rummage through the impulse shelves designed to tempt shoppers stuck in lines they never asked for.

The medication chart was, eventually, printed and laminated and handed to Bors.

“Do you want me to trim the excess?” the clerk asked.

“No,” Bors was quick to say, “but thanks.” He put the exact amount of cash required to pay for the thing and left without waiting for a receipt.

“We have scissors, right?” Bors asked as soon as they were back in the parking lot, “Oh, wait, kitchen scissors, duh.”

“We really need like,” Gawain paused to search for the words, “a community station for these sorts of things.”

“We act like a bunch of individuals and groups,” Bors elaborated on the sentiment, “but not a cohesive unit.”

“That's been brought into a really sharp focus this week,” Gawain frowned, “I feel like a horrible...everything. Brother. Knight. Person.”

“Your feelings on that matter are lying to you,” Bors informed him.

“Thanks,” Gawain tried to offer Bors a small smile.

They got back in the car and drove home. They'd been gone near an hour and Bors wasn't sure how anyone could spend so much time at a counter waiting for one sheet of plastic-coated paper.

Sixteen greeted them at the door with a series of small, happy chirps.

“Oh aren't you just the cutest,” Gawain cooed as he tossed his bags onto the couch to crouch down and fuss over the cat, “The cutest little cat with the cutest little sounds.

Bors smiled and stepped around them.

“Alright,” Bors held up the sheet once Gawain was done fussing over Sixteen, “what magnets did you get?”

“Quite a few,” Gawain picked his bags up and brought them into the kitchen, “I figure we can use some of the smaller magnets on the corners.”

“Works for me,” Bors hadn't yet actually seen any of the magnets. In the store, he'd only registered _full basket_ and his brain had stopped there.

“I also got this little basket for the dry erase markers,” Gawain held up something that looked like a tight mesh basket in the rough shape of a carved gemstone with a flat back so the back would lay flay on the fridge, “a few little frames for those tiny Polaroid photos that are making a comeback, some quite magnets, some other small magnets, a dry erase board, and of course the dry erase markers.”

“Polaroid is making a comeback?” This was the first Bors had heard of it.

“They're smaller than the vintage ones, but yeah,” Gawain was removing the packaging from everything, “I can show you some time.”

“Sure,” Bors stepped back to let Gawain do his thing with the magnets and magnet accessories, “Thanks.”

“It feels a little better,” Gawain said as he hung stuff up, “not having a bare fridge front.”

“Yeah,” Bors agreed, “I wonder what took us so long.”

“Living together apart,” Gawain's excited affect started to flag.

“We can always start changing that now,” Bors noted.

“Were you always such an optimist?” Gawain asked as he finished placing the magnets.

“No,” Bors told him, “but I've found it's better for me than the way I was.”

“I hope to get there some day,” Gawain told Bors, “What time is it?”

“Quarter past ten,” Bors checked his watch, “So, an hour and forty-five minutes until the next round of drugs.”

“Want to get a list together of what Sixteen needs?” Bors suggested.

“Good idea,” Gawain was already headed towards the couch and his laptop he'd left on the coffee table, “Can you set an alarm for noon?”

“Sure thing,” Bors tapped his watch a few times, “So, he's got food and his dishes...and nothing else.”

“We could get him some more dishes,” Gawain suggested, “so we can actually put them in the dish waster instead of hand scrubbing them.”

“We should make sure they're the same material, but yeah,” Bors was making a list on his phone, “A bed.”

“Even if he doesn't use it, we can say we tried,” Gawain agreed, “Where's his litter box?”

“In our room,” Bors said, “We're probably going to need litter.”

“We're absolutely going to need litter,” Gawain noted, “Cats need it a few inches deep so they can dig around.”

“Makes sense,” Bors nodded, “What else do cats need?”

“Uh,” Gawain tried to remember what his childhood cats had, “We said bed, litter...toys! Cats need toys!”

“Toys, alright,” Bors added _toys_ to the list, “Does he need a collar?”

“We should probably get one and a tag with one of our numbers on it,” Gawain drummed his fingers on the outer edges of his laptop keyboard, “Gods forbid he gets out, whoever finds him can at least call us.”

“I can't answer my phone at work,” Bors said, “But yeah, we can put yours on it.”

“Alright,” Gawain nodded, “What about the vet's number?”

“Good idea,” Bors made a note to include Gawain's number and the vet's number on the tag.

By the time noon rolled around, their list was much, much longer than it needed to be.

“This one's a pill,” Bors said as he silenced the alarm, “How do you made a cat take a pill.”

“If you hold him still I can pill him,” Gawain remembered what to do: shove the pill in the cat's mouth, hold its jaw closed gently but firmly, blow in its nose to force its swallow reflex to trigger, and wait until you feel it swallow. It was going to be far easier with a second person who had careful hands and a calm energy about him.

“Alright babycat,” Gawain cooed, “This one's going to suck but it'll be over before you know it.”

Sixteen swished his tail and eyes Gawain suspiciously. Bors scooped the cat up and held him across his chest as Gawain dug the pill bottle out and shook a single pill into his hand.

“Oh, perfect. Alright, I don't know if it has a coating that'll come off if I try to warm it in my hands,” Gawain said as he gave Sixteen a few pats, “so this one's going to be fridge temperature but at least it's not liquid.”

The pill giving was over almost as fast at the liquid medication time had been that morning, but there were more claws involved and a single tooth sunk into the webbed part of Gawain's hand in the flailing.

“Easy Six,” Gawain said with a hiss, “It's okay, I'd be scared, too, it's okay.”

“Shhh,” Bors tried to sooth the tiny apex predator whose claws were dug into his arms, “Did he swallow?”

“Well it's not on the floor, so I think so,” Gawain removed his hand carefully, “He does NOT like the taste of that one!”

“Alright, let's keep an eye on him to make sure,” Bors said as he put Sixteen down on the floor, “Shut the hall door?”

“Hall door is such a weird feature,” Gawain said as he shut it, “Especially since one of the bedrooms is on this side of the door.”

“I've always wondered about it,” Bors said as he watched Sixteen sulk off to the love seat, “Like, why is it there?”

“I know the house was built in three different sections,” Gawain was also watching Sixteen, “The main one, which would have been just this bedroom and the one you and Percival share. Kay and Bedivere's room was an addition, but whoever owned this house before Lancelot just didn't swap the door for an indoor one. The basement and the room my brothers and I share was another part.”

“Makes sense,” Bors thought it over, “That means the large bathroom and whatever plumbing the studio suite needs was also added on later.”

“Would have been an expensive renovation,” Gawain realized, “and while I'd love for Arthur to move in, where would we put him?”

“On the roof,” Bors couldn't suppress a small smile. Gawain laughed like it was genuinely funny.

“Alright,” Gawain grabbed his key's from his pocket, “Sixteen's already asleep, so let's roll.”

The nearest pet store was not as close as Staples had been, but it wasn't terribly far, either. Bors pulled up the list as Gawain put the car in park. As he looked from his phone to the small strip mall, he realized there was a discount home goods store three doors down from the pet store and if Gawain suggested they look for cat things there, they were also coming home with things for people, too.

“Oooh,” Gawain was also looking at the discount store, “I wonder if they have cat beds.”

And there it was.

“Let's go look,” Bors knew this wasn't a great financial decision, but he also couldn't remember the last time he'd bought something for himself that he didn't absolutely need.

He let Gawain lead him around the store as he pushed the cart and watched it fill up with things that would be nice but really, really weren't necessary. 

“What about that,” Bors pointed at a five-tiered mail and magazine sorter, “We're got the blank space by the far left book case in the living room and could break it up by bedroom.”

“Oh that's going to be so much more sane than piles on the two-by-two cubby thing next to the couch,” Gawain grabbed it ant put it in the cart, “and I can finally start putting drinks on it without fearing I'm going to ruin someone's mail!”

They grabbed new sheets; a new comforter for Gaheris, who Gawain was pretty sure would love it but he'd hang onto the receipt just in case; coffees with rich smells; fancy-looking pasta for dinner some time this weekend; candies for Mordred because Gawain remembered him mentioning they were his favorites; an assortment of pots and pans and baking sheets so they didn't have to fear scratching Kay's nice stuff; various baskets for organizing the living room and kitchen so things could be found easier; a few mugs Gawain thought were adorable and, really, they had the counter space; a notebook for Gareth, who was always writing so much he needed a new one every month at least; a weighted blanket for Percival; a pour over coffee maker because neither of them knew if there was a coffee machine and having a pour over sounded fancy; a cat bed; a cat scratcher; another cat bed; yet another cat bed; a small trash can for the living room so candy wrappers could be tossed instead of left on the coffee table and end tables; so many throws that were, in theory, for the living room but would likely disappear into various bedrooms within three months; a ten-sided fidget cube for Agrivane; a rug, also for the living room; and for reasons that Bors was sure would evade him for the rest of his life, an ugly as hell metal cactus.

“I don't think it's going to fit in the car,” Bors was staring at it as they waited in line.

“We can tie it down,” Gawain shrugged.

“How are we splitting this up?” Bors asked.

“Oh don't worry about it,” Gawain brushed him off, “A lot of it's for my brothers and this was my idea.”

“Uh,” Bors gave pause.

“Please,” Gawain's voice was _off_ , “It's nothing, to me, I've got it.”

“You're good to your brothers,” Bors told him.

“Hardly,” Gawain frowned.

“You are, though,” Bors looked over the cart, “And so aware of what's going to help, well, everyone.”

“Stop,” Gawain told him, then added quieter, “You're going to make me cry.”

“We're buying a giant metal cactus when we came for cat essentials,” Bors pointed out, “Pretty sure at this point some crying's expected.”

Gawain laughed, but some tears escaped. Bors put a hand on Gawain's shoulder and squeezed.

They picked out a few more small items as they walked through the gauntlet of cheap items that made up the corridor of a line.

“To the breakdown,” Gawain said as he added a bag of lime and hot pepper flavored popcorn, “May we do this again in ten minutes when we actually get to the pet store and get the rest of the items on our list.”

“To the breakdown,” Bors agreed, “May this be the worst of it.”

Gawain laughed like it was genuinely funny.


	28. Where Angels Have Failed

It wasn't a _motel at the beach_ like Guinevere had dreamed of when she was still a teenager who wanted little more than to pack her overnight bag and then shove herself into a car with far too many people and drink around a not-entirely-legal bonfire and watch the sunrise. But then again, those had been the dreams of an average girl with average grades who didn't want to even think about things like college applications and answers to the overbearing question that was _what do you want to do with the rest of your life?_

Even if she could remember how she'd answered that question, none of them would have even been close it _as the returned Queen of Camelot, lost in a country that was never mine, following the child of my best friend because he communes with angels._

If nothing else, she'd've expected Queens to get better motel rooms.

They were there, the four of them, in a motel whose sigh had faded so much that she was only mostly sure she knew the name of the place they were staying. The beds smelled faintly of cigarette smoke despite the 'no smoking' placard glued to the room's door.

Still, it was facing the beach and if you were comfortable crossing a state highway in foot it was accessible at any time.

If you didn't mind going to the beach in November.

The initial handful of days they'd taken to try to get Galahad's head on right again were...less than successful. Galahad was inpatient and angry and, though he didn't say as much, _terrified._ There were no solutions, no new ideas that made sense when they were actually considered, no ground gained.

Quite the opposite had happened, really. Guinevere had never felt further from...

...where did she expect to be, really? Where in this country, this world, did she expect to find herself at the end of all this? If not at Arthur's side, then where?

The beach had made sense.

This was the cheapest place they could find that was _at_ the beach. There had been some agreement that a large body of saltwater might help, though how nobody was exactly sure. Maybe it was because it would be kind of like home, the waves and the wind and the saltwater spray bringing them something the open roads couldn't.

Or maybe it was the rest, the actual rest they were all supposed to be taking. Guinevere doubted she would – or could – rest, but it was worth a try.

And besides, it was almost the new moon, and well.

Well.

In a day and a half they'd have something much more immediate to worry about if they didn't secure a room and a _lot_ of food.

And so, there they were.

“I'm going to the beach,” Galahad announced as soon as they'd all set their bags down and did a sweep of the room for anything previous occupants may have left behind, “I'll have my phone but try not to call if it isn't an emergency.”

He'd been out the door before anyone could say anything.

“I'm trying not to pity him,” Morgause said to the door as soon as it closed again, “but sometimes it takes more effort than other times.”

“He's got the weight of several worlds on his shoulders,” Melion agreed, “I can feel it.”

“And then some,” Guinevere sat on the edge of one of the beds and then let herself flop backwards, feet still planted on the floor, “I wish I still knew how to use magic like I used to.”

“Me, too,” Morgause voiced her agreement like it was a pained confession, 

“For all the trouble magic has caused me you'd think I wouldn't have walked away from my life to chase down a mythical King alongside two sorceresses and _the_ Grail Knight,” Melion shook his head, the lingering disbelief that _this was his life_ making a brief appearance.

“One of the Grail Knights,” Guinevere corrected him, “There were three.”

“Poor kid,” Melion winced, “He's really lost everything, hasn't he?”

“Except his grip on reality,” Guinevere said, “And he has us.”

“Not sure what help I am,” Melion muttered.

“Do you always get like this around a new moon?” Morgause asked.

“Do I always get like – oh, very funny,” Melion rolled his eyes.

“You got a little heavy on the self-doubt there,” Guinevere pointed out, “Anyways, I can go get you enough food to get you through. Just give me a list of your favorites and I'll see what I can do.”

“Literally anything but all steak,” Melion's voice was tight, “It was so. Much Steak.”

“You realize fat has twice the calories as protein or carbs, year?” Morgause asked, “Fatty meats are going to be your best bed.”

Melion let out a whine that didn't quiet sound human.

“Mel, relax, we don't have anything to cook on this time. If there's meat, it'll be like. A whole ass chicken or McDonald's or something. Text me the list,” Guinevere said as she stood up again, “Morgause, anything you want, text me as well.”

“What about Galahad?” Melion asked, “What would he want?”

“I'll ask him before I leave,” Guinevere assured them, “Look both ways before you cross the highway.”

“Only if you do the same,” Morgause called after her.

“Always,” Guinevere called over her shoulder.

She did, in fact, look both ways despite how empty the highway was. It made sense, she supposed, that most people wouldn't want to vacation on the beach in the November and this wasn't really an area with a high density of residential buildings, from what she could tell.

“Gal,” she called out to give him some time to react, “Gal, I'm going to the store, what to do you want?”

“Food?” Galahad asked, “Maybe a fuzzy blanket so I can turn myself into a human burrito and forget about everything that might be going wrong.”

“If a blanket helps you with that,” Guinevere shrugged, “What are you doing out here?”

“Not communing,” Galahad huffed, “It should have been there, Jenny, it should have been there and should have lead us _right to everyone else._ And now I have nothing. No ideas where to go, no clue where _anyone else_ is, no magic embedded in a sword to point to the best path.

“I can't do it, Jenny. I can't – the angels, the – the everything. It's never failed like this. It's never been **wrong** like this. I uprooted all three of you, and for what? To fail you when we were so close?”

Galahad sniffed and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand covered in his sleeve.

“I don't think you've failed us,” Guinevere sat down beside him.

“I don't know where to go from here,” Galahad had his knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, and chin resting just shy of his knees, “I don't know if I even _want_ to try again.”

There was a silence; Guinevere knew Galahad wanted to say more, and she gave him the space in the silence.

“I don't want to fail again,” Galahad said it like it was a confession, “Not with so much a stake.”

“You don't have to,” Guinevere put an arm around him.

Galahad had expected her to tell him to try again, or that not all was lost or give some sort of short, rousing speech that amounted to _'you can pull through and we'll all follow you to the end, whatever that looks like,'_

The first sob escaped him before he realized it was happening. Guinevere held him and let him cry, two lifetimes of having to bear the world on his shoulders without anyone telling him he could put the world down and just be Galahad spilling out in half-formed sentences he choked out when he could get the air in his lungs to do so.

“Thanks,” Galahad said when the sobs finally died down.

“Always,” Guinevere squeezed him a little bit.

“I don't know what to do,” Galahad whispered.

“What if,” Guinevere tried not to let her words get ahead of her too much, “What if we just...all took a break. Took a proper vacation instead of a _rest and regroup in the nearest town with open beds_ fake vacation.”

“I,” Galahad swallowed the lump in his throat that was threatening to choke him from the inside out, “I think I like that idea.”

“We'll all make a list of where we want to go-slash-what we want to see and go from there,” Guinevere told him.

“This can't be why you came over here,” Galahad sniffed.

“Oh, need to go to the store!” she remembered why she'd left the motel room, “New moon coming up and all,”

Galahad's face brightened a little bit. “Can I come?”

“Absolutely,” Guinevere said as she let go of Galahad, stood up, and offered him her hand. Galahad took it and let Guinevere hoist him to his feet.

“Thanks,” Galahad said again. Guinevere put an arm around his shoulder again and they started walking towards the motel and the truck.

“The other two are going to text me their grocery wish lists,” Guinevere explained, “I'm hoping Melion's is so bizarre and all over the place.”

“If it isn't near the caloric requirement I'll help meet it,” Galahad offered.

“It's impressive, what you did to help him last time,” Guinevere told him.

“I just _knew_ ,” Galahad shrugged.

“I can't imagine what it was like for him,” Guinevere said as she stopped to look both ways before crossing the highway, “Spending so much time afraid he was a monster and undeserving of companionship or help.”

“I can, to a point,” Galahad admitted halfway across the hallway, “The angels, the way they...they _changed_ me. I wasn't. I don't remember any parts of this life before I remembered the first one and then the memories of the angels came almost immediately after that and I've just never really felt like a person since.”

“I can't imagine what it's bee like for you, either,” Guinevere told him an she fished out the truck keys, “But I'm glad the both of you are here.”

“Thank you,” Galahad meant it.

Guinevere's phone vibrates five times in rapid succession.

“Lists?” Galahad asked.

“Mel wants almost entirely carbs,” Guinevere said with a laugh.

“Oh I cannot wait to see how this plays out,” Galahad managed a smile, “There aren't any mirrors,; what do you think he'd going to flip out at this time?”

“I have no idea,” Guinevere said as she unlocked the truck, “but I'm hiding my shoes this time.”

Galahad laughed because it _was_ funny, and somewhere in that sound Guinevere hoped she heard the room for Galahad to forgive himself for the angels' failures.


End file.
